Funny is the New Young

Is My Phone Smarter Than I Am?

2012-02-08T05:00:00.009-06:00

For the past four years I have said that I did not want a Smartphone. I said it so often that I began saying that I didn’t want a phone that was smarter than I am.

All four of our kids and their spouses have Smartphones. I maintained that I was perfectly happy with a compact device that enabled me to make contact while away from home. I rarely used it for conversation, per se. I wanted the reassurance that in an emergency (mine) I could call for help, or in an emergency (anyone else’s), they could reach me.

Sure, we’d had numerous dinners out with one of the kids when a question came up that one of the wisenheimers answered with the help of the internet, simply by picking up his or her cell phone and Googleing for help. Still, I wasn’t prone to joining that club.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, a few months ago I decided that I had been kidding myself. I, too, wanted to be able to connect via satellite to the worldwide web from the chair crammed into a meeting room, from the noisy seat in the airport waiting area, from the passenger seat of a car. I, too, wanted to be able to look up the name of that guy—you know, the one in the movie with what’s her name—oh yeah, Glenn Close, where they—well, not that it matters, I just WANTED to. I wanted to be able to put my hands on that knowledge wherever and whenever the urge struck, because, let’s face it, at my age when I plan to look something up when I get home, odds are that it will never again cross my medulla oblongata. And if you don’t know what that is, you can look it up on your Smartphone.

Now if you know me at all, you know that in my General Rules of Life book, the top five includes the following: Don’t ask for anything. Part and parcel of this is never to say “I want ______.” Somehow I have adopted the worldview that the less you ask for in life, the greater your worth as a person. Now, I know that this does not make sense. I would spend serious time counseling anyone I know to abandon such a tenet. Yet I can’t seem to shake it as a personal credo. Until now.

My former inclination to eschew any requests for anything of a material nature went right out the window. I’m sixty-two goddamn years old, and I don’t think I have the right to ask for (by which I mean buy myself) a particular cell phone? That’s nuts, and I know it. So I broke my rule and I asked.

Then I researched all the data plans, the activation fees, the software and the hardware and I did the hokey-pokey till all the numbers swirled in front of my face and made me slightly nauseous. But I pulled up my socks and went to the kiosk of the best deal and got Smartphones for the Center of the Universe and me.

Now I can find any quilt shop in the United States because I have an app for that. I can read the New York Times, the Washington Post, and USA Today in the palm of my hand, because I have an app for that. I can scan the bar code of any item in any store and comparison shop it across the universe because (wait for it…) I have an app for that.

But more importantly, I can play Scrabble with my son, Wordfeud with my stepson, and soon Scrabbleicious (I think) with my son-in-law. And I can do all of these 24/7. This makes me very happy. It’s a cool way of being connected around the clock.

Now I don’t mind that my phone is smarter than I am. I just need an app for my addiction to it.

Running the Race

2012-02-01T05:00:00.003-06:00

I’m running a marathon. Don’t faint—it’s not the 10K for cancer research. It’s not the 5K for heart disease. It’s the never-ending race against the relentless dust and grime in my house.

How does it accumulate so fast? It seems as if by the time I’ve finished dusting and vacuuming I could write my name in the new deposits on the coffee table. Is that fair? Shouldn’t I at least get one day’s grace?

I feel so good when I’ve cleaned the whole house that you would think I’d be looking forward to the next time I attack it. You would be wrong. I still curl my upper lip and flare my nostrils at the thought of Windex, Formula 409 and Lysol. At the end of a day of cleaning, I’m sure I need a good detox from inhaling all those fumes.

I guess I like it being done, not so much the act of doing it. I can think of a thousand things I would rather be doing, and so can you. You know how it is: your baseboards need dusting, your windows need washing, your shower has soap scum and if only modern technology hadn’t eradicated waxy yellow buildup, you’d be battling that, too. There are not enough hours in the day, and this is now that I’m retired from ‘work’. And did you notice how I shifted this from my problem to yours? You’re in this, too.

How did this happen? When I worked full-time I was gone fifty to fifty-five hours a week, including the commute. I always fantasized that when I retired my house would be neat as a pin and clean as a whistle. (Why pins and whistles constitute the gold standard for household presentation I cannot explain, but they do.) I imagined that my closets would all be color-coded, hangers lining up like little soldiers—all their heads and shoulders at the same precise angle. My shoes and purses would look like the gorgeous photos in splashy magazine layouts, which are clearly shot just to make us all feel inferior.

I fantasized that my kitchen drawers would all be so neat and tidy that Martha Stewart could drop in at any time and pluck a spatula of just the right size and shape from the second drawer. If Oprah herself had rung the doorbell, I could welcome her in without a mad dash through the house to pick up a stray newspaper or coffee mug. And if Dr. Oz ever dropped by to inspect my medicine chest, I’d be so proud when he opened the door to see my neatly organized and categorized supply of pharmaceuticals, not a single one out-of-date.

Need I tell you that none of this has come to pass?

My closets still look like I frantically ransack them for the perfect item on a twice-daily basis. The house is tidy, but my floors have a protective coating of dust that the Guinness people are coming to measure on Friday. The outsides of my windows make me cringe when the sun shines. I’m a failure.

One of these days I’ll wake up with an uncontrollable urge to clean everything in the house. That will be the day I sign up for the marathon at the Senior Olympics. I’ll just have to find out whether Windex would disqualify me under the doping rules.

That's How We Roll!

2012-01-12T15:03:00.005-06:00

What’s the best thing about spending eleven nights in a hotel?

Fresh and ironed sheets every day? No, but that’s certainly in my top five.

New towels hung for you every day? Not really, but still it’s way up there.

Not having to make your bed at all? Definitely a 'plus', but not huge in my book.

Here’s a clue: it relates to something you have to do at home, that your husband NEVER does, that has to be done every couple of days, and that can—at times—create an emergency.

Yes. Changing the toilet paper roll.

Husbands have been proven to be 96.3% incapable of achieving this seemingly simple task. (Some rare events –we’ll call them anecdotal evidence—have been cited elsewhere, but I remain dubious.)

At least when you’re in a hotel, they generally put a fresh roll of toilet paper out each day, and you don’t have to run out, don’t have to seek a replacement roll, and don’t have to make the swap yourself.

I know, I know, this is a tiny task that takes so little time or effort—why do I let it bug me? I think every one of us has a particular chore that simply irks us, whether it makes sense or not.

In part, it’s this: I don’t mind changing the roll; I mind being the only one who changes the roll. Especially since I’m not the only one who’s using the stuff.

So what happened on this particular trip? Don’t ask. Okay—actually, if you don’t ask, there’s no point in this blog post at all, is there? Well, here are a few documented photographs of my experience…

Every time I went into a bathroom, anywhere, it seemed, the roll was empty when I got there. There was always access to a replacement roll, in contrast to the times when you go into a public restroom stall, only to realize just when you need it most, that there is no paper to be found. Those are the times I am grateful that I (nearly) always have Kleenex in my purse or pocket.

Even at my daughter’s house, I went into the hall bathroom on my first day there and found this:

No big deal, of course, but it became funny very quickly. Mostly because if you don’t view it as funny, you will begin to tear your hair out by the fistful. So I took a picture. (My cell phone was in my pocket. –as in, is that a cell phone in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?)

And the problem snowballed. Every time I entered a bathroom, I just expected to see an empty roll where toilet paper should have been… And I was not disappointed. Hilarity ensued.

I somehow lack the joy that my husband and so many others share, of never having to worry about toilet paper. Conversely, I do have the lovely gift of parking karma. I tend to find the first spot in the first row by the door of wherever I’m going. It also works if I’m a passenger in someone else’s car. Certainly there are exceptions, but by and large I get the best parking spaces on a regular basis.

Would I trade parking karma for t.p. roll karma? Hmmm… I suppose not. So I guess I should keep mum about this particular complaint and learn to live with it.

And in case you’re wondering how I know about the 96.3% of toilet paper rolls changed by women, I submit the following evidence.

Some time ago, I discussed this irksome task with my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU.) He innocently professed that it was his belief that he changes the roll with great frequency, and never shirks from his responsibility in this regard. I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head and quietly went about the business of saving the empty rolls instead of discarding them.

first box...

Here are the rolls I replaced.

First pile...

Second pile...

second box

third box

Here are CoTu’s.

Pathetic, isn't it?

Case closed. By the way, it was really 99.7%, but I scaled it back out of charity. Even though he only changed these because I was out of town.

And as for the best thing about staying eleven nights in a hotel? Trick question. The answer is coming home to sleep in your own bed.

Secrets of a Happy Marriage

2011-12-14T05:00:00.012-06:00

I learned a great lesson on how to keep a marriage happy from the French master chef Jacques Pepin. He was on the radio on Thanksgiving Day (on NPR, of course—you know me!) talking about cooking for the holiday with Lynne Rosetto Kasper of The Splendid Table. She does a turkey day program every year called Turkey Confidential. Listeners can call in and ask all manner of questions regarding the preparation, cooking and serving of virtually anything you can imagine. It’s quite informative, and lots of fun to listen to if you happen to be alone in the kitchen on that day!

Lynne Rosetto Kasper

One of her guests was the aforementioned Jacques Pepin. He’s very amusing and entertaining, and being a Frenchman of the old school, I must say that he is also charming. In the midst of all the discussion of how to choose your ingredients, how to clean, slice, and dice them, how to safely cook them and how to beautifully serve them, Monsieur Pepin slipped in the most valuable nugget of info of the decade. I will share it with you. Perhaps many, many marriages and other relationships can be saved.

Jacques Pepin

Jacques Pepin noted almost offhandedly that there was a point on which he and his wife disagreed. They therefore did what she wanted, as their plan is that when they differ, they do what she wants. At the same time, when they agree on things, they do what he wants. This, he avers, is completely fair. I agree. It just ain’t never gonna happen in this marriage. You recall that I am married to the Center of the Universe, so we handle things differently.

In our marriage, CoTU handles all the small decisions, and I handle all the big decisions. We’re just so lucky that in all these years we’ve never had to make a big decision.

Hair and There

2011-12-07T05:00:00.007-06:00

I have no idea why I spend so much time and energy ironing the backs of my pants. Let’s face it, by the time I drive anywhere, they’re so wrinkled, I might as well have spent that time drinking. Unless I’m dressing to have people over at my own house, I hereby vow to stop wasting time ironing the backs of my pants. Until the guilt gets me. It got me. I’ll iron ‘em, I promise.

But it’s a lot like combing the back of my hair, or more specifically, the hair on the back of my head. I twirl my round brush with one hand, wave the hair dryer over it with the other hand, and then I check it in the hand mirror, to make sure I don’t look like a wacko. Well, at least not like a wacko who doesn’t know enough to fix the back of her hair. Then I get in the car to go where I’m going, and the headrest makes the back of my hair look like Woody Allen. From the front. Seriously, it ends up looking like a matted and misshapen stuffed animal is perched on the back of my head. It’s gross.

This brings me to a question that’s been bothering me for years. Now I’ll bring it up here and it can bother you, too. Or perhaps you’ll have an answer for me, and I can start sleeping through the night.

We –that is my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I --will go out on a Saturday night with friends. In preparation, we shower, shampoo, rinse and repeat. I fix my hair, he shaves, we dress, I put on makeup, not necessarily in that order. But close. I frequently iron my pants, his pants, and God knows whatever else happens to need ironing.

I’m pretty sure the other couple we’re going out with goes through the same rigmarole. Except for one thing. At least half the time, we see other adult men in a restaurant or at the theatre who, while nicely dressed, and driving nice cars, don’t seem to own a comb or a hairbrush. Or if they do, they don’t know what it’s supposed to be used for.

Now I understand that men of a certain age (though I’m uncertain as to what the ‘certain’ actually means here) are no longer trying to attract a mate, having already accomplished that feat. Same thing can be said for women. But I never see women who go out (except on the way home from the gym) without at least trying to make their hair look decent. Women may not always curl, straighten, flat iron, or spray their hair, but I’ve yet to see a woman on a Saturday night at a restaurant who hadn’t at least COMBED her hair. Men? –not so much. I’ve seen hair that looked as if it hadn’t even been combed when the barber cut it. It’s scary.

Again, I can even comprehend that it slips a guy’s mind, and he’s more interested in who won the Big 12 game that afternoon, and what dinner’s going to cost him. The real mystery is how his wife doesn’t pleasantly suggest that he comb his hair before they leave home. You know, a simple, “Mortimer, your hair looked so nice when you combed it last month. Would you like to try that again tonight?” Unless his name isn’t Mortimer, and then it just wouldn’t make any sense at all.

Maybe she was busy ironing her pants.

Leaves, Snow, Pollen, Moles: The Four Seasons

2011-11-30T05:00:00.006-06:00

Thanksgiving is behind us, and if the first snow has not fallen where you are by the time you read this, it cannot be far behind. We had a flurry here Monday morning. Happily, it didn’t amount to anything. We can only hope that we get the last of the leaves raked up and hauled away before the white stuff really descends.

I think it’s a sign of old age that we have begun to view the change of seasons only as they relate to dreaded household chores.

We have not yet put the leaf rakes and yes, I admit it, power leaf blower into that bleak section of the garage known as ‘off-season storage’, and we’ve begun to bemoan the prospect of winter and snow shoveling. As winter ends, we’ll start fretting about the spring pollen that clogs our screens and fills our deck. Just as that’s clearing away, we’ll be worrying about the lawn and the moles and the carpenter bees. And then, of course, we’re back to the leaves. Perhaps we’re ‘glass half-empty’ kind of people.

Now this would not be such a bad thing, but it does keep us from what life coaches and zen masters call ‘living in the moment’.

Today we should be enjoying the comfy temperatures that enable us to walk the neighborhood in just a sweater, instead of the heavy coats and caps that are soon to come. We should be enjoying the fact that it’s not yet dark at 4:30, as it surely will be a month from now. We should be enjoying the relative beauty of the brilliant reds still clinging to the row of burning bush shrubs that line our driveway, and the wonderful crunch of the dried leaves under our feet on the paths in Babler State Park. Are we doing this? Not so much. We’re changing furnace filters, fighting the woodpeckers opening knots in our cedar siding, and lamenting the impending ice age that is sure to come.

Have we learned nothing from the sixty-something winters we have survived? It’s as if we are embarking on new and unseen territory as fearsome and threatening as the surface of Jupiter. Is this why so many clear-thinking seniors have become ‘snowbirds’ and spend the harsh winter months in the balmy and temperate southern states?

Last year we spent Thanksgiving with our son and daughter-in-law in Washington, D.C. From there we drove to Englewood, Florida at the generous invitation of friends. We spent five delightful days there, but I believe that in some deep-seated way it altered my ability to experience winter.

We ran into some very cold and blustery weather en route home, and it was as if I had no winter coat and gloves. I believe that somehow my body had decided that Florida was right, and anything else was wrong. And while I’m not a Florida person in general, by the time we returned to St. Louis on December 8^th, my body was inexorably altered. I endured last winter with incredible disdain for the cold and damp. Every 30° day felt like a 20° day; twenty felt like ten, and I pretty much felt like Sam McGee who needed to be ‘cremated’ just to defrost. I survived, without Sam McGee’s incineration, but my suffering was intensified by my newfound world view.

This year it will be different. We’re not visiting Florida till February, at which time it should feel like Paradise. By the time we come home, it will be time to put the snow shovels into dry dock and welcome the pollen. Meanwhile, I’m putting on a sweater and going out for a walk.

Overheard at 30,000 feet

2011-10-17T05:00:00.003-05:00

Ah yes, the airplane trip: a dependable source of frustration, humor and shared germs. Squished carry-ons, people who won’t turn off their cell phones, talkers who want to yak in your ear, and the incessant coughing that turns the aircraft into a flying petri dish. Yet it gets us where we want to go, and by and large, it’s all just fine. Every safe landing is a happy landing, I like to say.

None of which keeps me from laughing about some of the escapades we experience or witness in flight.

On a recent trip home from Sacramento, I changed planes in Phoenix. After most of us were in our seats, our intrepid and unflappable flight attendant, Shonda, brought a young boy of 9 or 10 aboard. She seated him in the aisle seat in the row across from me. As a result, I was treated to the following overheard conversation.

Wait—I got ahead of myself. I was seated on the aisle, too, and the young boy shared his row with an older couple; the wife was at the window, and the husband was in the center seat. Now, back to the ~~eavesdropping~~ entertainment.

Boy: My last name’s a color. Guess it.

Man: Green.

Boy: Nope.

Man: White.

Boy: Yep.

Man: My last name’s a position—guess it.

Boy: Pitcher.

Man: (Chuckling) No. What’s the opposite of right?

Boy: Left.

Man: Right.

Boy: Do you live in Phoenix? We live in Mesa.

Man: I live on the opposite side of Phoenix in Sun City.

Boy: Sin City?

Man: No, Sun City, like the sun shines in the sky.

Boy: I thought you said ‘sin’ and sin is bad.

[Oh great—this poor man’s in for a 3 ½ hour lecture on original sin and the evil nature of man from a 9-year old, proving once again that no good deed goes unpunished.]

It got real quiet in their row after that.

Break-In or Break-Out?

2011-09-30T09:37:00.000-05:00

The day started off innocently enough. We had slept soundly. Everything looked and felt normal. There were no overt signs or sounds of a break-in…

I got up, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed for the gym. I grabbed an armload of laundry and headed downstairs to toss it all into the washing machine, where I had casually dumped a couple of towels and cleaning rags the previous morning. The plan was to fill the load today and run the thing at capacity. But then…

I opened the lid, and found it empty.

What?

Where are the things I had left inside? I looked around the laundry room. Nothing on the floor. Nothing on top of the dryer… Then I looked inside the dryer.

Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh—scare me to death—the missing laundry was in the dryer, clean and dry! There was only one conclusion: a burglar had gotten into the house and done this tiny load of laundry!

I struggled to get my breathing under control, and reached for the phone to call 911. Then I realized I should tell my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) first. I wouldn’t want the sirens to be his first awareness of this.

I found him upstairs at his computer, and broke the news as gently as I could. “Honey—I’m sorry, but there’s a problem downstairs. It looks like we’ve had an intruder, and I’m not talking about another squirrel.”

Of course, he jumped up and freaked out. “What? Where—what happened?”

“Calm down,” I said, there doesn’t appear to be any real damage, just a load of laundry done.”

He sank back down in his chair, and attempted to wither me into shame with an icy glare.

No explanation was forthcoming.

“Hello???” I prodded. “You know, some things are givens. The sun will rise in the east, the Mississippi flows south, highway 40 will jam at the 141 overpass, and you do not touch the washing machine. These are not facts because I wish them to be so, they seem to be forces of nature. Well, at least the first two. The others I have come to believe because of so many years of observation and experience. I open the washer and expect to see what I left there the day before. It has always been so. You can’t do something so unexpected and out-of-character and think I’m not going to be stunned. I need an explanation.”

“Ummm… it’s really no big deal… I wanted to clean my new lens cloths, and you were in that all-day workshop, so I stuck them in the washer and did it. Dried ‘em, too.”

“But,” I struggled to say with aplomb, “it seems that there’s always been a force field in the laundry room that repelled you from the washer and dryer. Remember the time I was away on Father’s Day and left your card and gift inside the dryer, knowing full well you would never run across it accidentally? I had to call you and tell you to get it out and open it. That space has always been sacrosanct—what’s next? You’ll be rinsing dishes and putting them into the dishwasher? Please—where’s my real husband, and who are you really?”

He turned back to his computer with a smug smile. “CoTU, here. Where ya gonna hide my next present?”

I’m not worried. There’s still the vacuum cleaner closet.

My Marriage and Al Gore

2011-09-21T08:08:00.002-05:00

Al Gore had a good week last week. He was on The Colbert Report Tuesday night, and sparred competently with the amazingly agile and witty Stephen Colbert. My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I enjoyed the spectacle immensely. When it ended, I blithely commented that Colbert hadn’t even plugged the new dance studio Gore had opened.

“Dance studio?” the hub inquired.

“Yeah, it’s based on math formulas. It’s called the Al-go-rhythm,” I deadpanned. He threw a throw pillow at me. Maybe that’s how they got the name. You know: throw pillows. Sorry.

Then Wednesday as I was preparing our lunch, listening to Neal Conan’s Talk of the Nation on NPR, and soaking up the pun-ditry and wisdom of the ‘political junkie’ Ken Rudin (his cohort for the Wednesday show) CoTU moseyed into the kitchen. I subtly pointed at the radio so he’d know that I was focused on what was being said, and implying that he might be interested, too. He was.

He also began quietly foraging in the pantry for a snack to tide him over the next ten minutes or so while I created a chef’s salad for me and a turkey wrap with black olives and sun-dried tomatoes for him. Often, when he does this, I point out (helpfully) that a meal is just moments away. He then (helpfully) points out in response that his snacking has never dulled his appetite for a meal. Case closed. This time, I chose to save my breath, since my helpfulness has never deterred his snacking anyway.

Meanwhile, Mr. Gore again espoused the breadth and depth of the scientific community’s belief in climate change and the human component thereof. Although he said it much better than that, and didn’t have to use ‘thereof’.

CoTU popped some dry-roasted peanuts into his mouth and said, “He does a fine job of stating the facts, outlining the situation, and proposing solutions.”

I stopped chopping tomatoes for the salad and gave him a cold, hard stare. “This man has been vice-president of the United States, holds numerous honorary doctorates from respected universities, in 2007 he won an Emmy, a Grammy, the Nobel Peace Prize for heaven’s sake, and pretty much everything but the Heisman trophy—but believe me, I’m sure nothing would mean as much to him as your glowing assessment of his competence.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he would,” CoTU agreed, totally missing my sarcasm. “Is he divorced now?”

“I guess so—I recall hearing that he and Tipper separated about a year ago. Why—are you planning to fix him up with someone?” I asked.

“Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-no.”

Pause.

“You want to date him yourself?” I suggested.

He choked on a peanut.

We went back to listening to the interview, enjoying the rich repartee of the co-hosts with their guest. Soon our lunch was ready and we sat down to eat, still listening to the radio. When the program ended, we did our usual post-mortem on it—what we thought about the points made, and the other ideas that had come to mind while we had been listening.

As we cleared the table and put the dishes into the dishwasher (and when I say ‘we’, I mean me), CoTU suggested we head upstairs to double our entrendres. (Insert your favorite euphemism here.)

“Cool,” I said. “As long as you’re not going to be thinking about Al Gore.”

“And as long as you’re not going to blog about this,” he added.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight…

“You know, maybe Al and Tipper would still be together if he had spent less time working on the environment of the planet, and more time working on the home environment,” CoTU said.

“Or maybe Tipper got tired of polishing his trophies,” I remarked.

“So to speak…” he mumbled.

Back to Back

2011-09-07T12:21:00.000-05:00

Our mattress is done for. We used to love it, and even on the best of vacations, we would talk all the way home of how much we looked forward to sleeping in our own bed.

I have a long history of back problems, dating back to my twenties. (Yes, I can remember back that far, thank you very much.) My brother has the same problem with the same disk, so we blame our parents. That’s fair, isn’t it? My kids blame me for everything they suffer from, so why should the buck stop here? I ain’t no Harry Truman, you know…

Anyhoo, this summer my back issues seemed to escalate, and by the fourth of July had really flared up (pun intended.) I was walking like the 2000-year old man: hunched over and grimacing in pain.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) suggested I try sleeping in the guest room. I gracefully declined, unwilling to believe I could blame my troubles on the mattress I had so loved and relied on for so long.

The problems with my back continued.

CoTU again suggested I give the guest room a try. After all, our guests were gone, and though that mattress is significantly older than the one we currently share, he posited that I had nothing to lose. I again declined, this time without a trace of grace, and got down on the floor to resume the physical therapy exercises that usually grant me relief. But like the Cardinals’ bullpen, there was not nearly enough relief to be had.

Within a few days I gave in to his urging, and gave the guest bedroom a try.

That room is now known as Lourdes.

The very first morning I woke up and walked upright for the first time in weeks! I slept better, felt better and moved a whole lot easier. Knowing CoTU as you do, you know how pleased he was to have been proven right.

Except for one thing. Now he can’t lure me back to the bed that causes me so much pain and discomfort.

He tried enticing me back with tales of his ‘invisible friend’. “She’s really special. She’s really hot,” he said.

“She’s really imaginary,” I replied.

Both beds are available for conjugal visits, but I insisted that he boot out his invisible friend before I agreed to go back. No more references to her, her specialness, or her hotness. “She doesn’t take care of you like I do,” I helpfully pointed out. “I haven’t noticed her helping with feeding you, for instance.”

“True,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t have to.”

Ouch! “You’re going to die,” I deadpanned.

“In your arms?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be the one in handcuffs.”

We’re going shopping for a new mattress. Today.

The Wild Kingdom

2011-08-25T05:00:00.005-05:00

You remember my bunco club, the Dicey Housewives of West County, don’t you? Yes, the ten of us have been getting together for years on the second Monday of the month to play bunco. There used to be twelve of us, but the other two let sanity overtake them, and they dropped out. We ten survivors probably laugh too much to be tolerated on a regular basis. It’s better this way.

Anyway, over the years we have come to realize that in July and August we are too scattered (geographically, not mentally—that’s permanent) to gather enough members for our usually rousing evening of throwing dice and rotating among the tables. (If you don’t play bunco, just visualize a game of musical chairs punctuated by a gaggle of giggling grandmas asking each other what number we’re on.) So we do what otherwise normal women do—we go out to dinner instead.

Here I will pause to point out that alcohol is not, and has never been involved in our get-togethers. We’re all pretty sure we could be dangerous with a glass or two of chardonnay in us.

But back to our story…

At our August dinner, everyone was laughing, talking and sharing stories. We try to keep each other apprised of the comings and goings in our families, the travels, the remodeling, the moving, the medical issues, the not-to-be-missed recipes, and the ways in which our husbands drive us batty.

Suddenly Jan says, “Oh, Leah—I was thinking about you! The other night I was getting ready for bed, and last thing, I’m about to go to the bathroom. I lift the lid on the toilet and see that there’s something in there! I think, ‘Oh, the grandkids were over earlier, and one of them forgot to flush.’ Then, as I’m about to reach for the handle, I see this thing BLINK at me! Then I realize it’s a frog! I close the lid as fast as I can, and start yelling for Stu (her husband) to come in. My voice got so high-pitched, he thinks I’ve hurt myself or something.”

No, Jan did not take a picture.
Consider this a facsimile.

Jan went on to tell us how long it took for the two of them to get the frog flushed away. The next day, she called the Metropolitan Sewer District to report this, and to see what could be done to keep it from recurring. She was redirected to the water company. Jan thought she had a “you won’t believe this” tale to tell, but the customer service representative at Missouri American Water Company was unfazed. “You wouldn’t believe how common this is,” she said.

She also said that there was virtually nothing that could be done to prevent it from happening again.

Ruh-roh.

This led us all to speculating about what might have happened if it had been a snake or a rat. Yes, we all spoiled our appetites ‘going there’. But we all vowed to keep our toilet lids down at all times, just in case. Not that it would help much if a snake wanted to slither out.

But as the laughter died down and we were all grimacing at the possibilities, I had a thought.

“Jan,” I began. “I’ve never had a frog in my toilet before, so what made you start this story by saying that you thought of me the other night?”

“Well,” she began, “You did have squirrels in the attic, a chipmunk in the ceiling, and mice in the garage. You’ve had more in-house wildlife than anyone I know.”

“So I’m like a cross between Martha Stewart and Steve Irwin?” I asked.

She agreed. I went home and polished my squirrel traps.

I'll Take "Names & Jobs" for $800, Alex

2011-08-17T05:00:00.004-05:00

By popular request, we’re back with another installment of “I Chose This Profession Because of My Name”.

You may recall that we’ve shared examples in the past of people whose names almost prophesy their professions. Doctors like Dr. Wink (the optometrist), Dr. Bonebrake (the orthopedic surgeon), Dr. Fang (the dentist), Dr. Wisdom (the oral surgeon), and my personal favorite, Dr. Philpott (the urologist.)

And they’re not all doctors. Remember Sally Ride, the first woman astronaut? She fits in quite well here. There was the pilot, Ross Aimer, and the dietician named Kathy Kitchens Downie. If only she hadn’t married Mr. Downie, she could have emphasized the Kitchens more. Still…

So now that I’ve refreshed your memory, here are a new crop of discoveries:

A woman metalsmith whose last name is Hammer. (Sorry I didn’t jot down her first name when I saw her interviewed on the Newshour.)

An expert on animal breeding at an animal preserve whose name is Ron Sweisgood (pronounced “Sways good”.)

An archivist at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia by the name of Sarah Forgey. (Yikes—and they hired her!)

The trading floor guru of UBS, and frequent guest on CNBC, named Art Cashin. How could he have possibly chosen any other profession in the world? Of course, if his name were Cashout he’d have a whole bucket of problems…

The veterinarian named Dr. Hoot! (Thanks to astute reader and blogger “Sunny in Seattle” for contributing this one!)

And my current favorite, the Bangor, Maine Home Depot employee, who, in June, presided over a nest of mallard eggs, and protected them till they emerged: no—wait for it—it’s worth the wait—Brenda Hatch.

200th Post and Celebrating Two Years

2011-08-03T05:00:00.007-05:00

Happy Anniversary to the Blog!

Yes, here at FITNY (no, that’s not a chic New York gym—it’s Funny Is The New Young) we’re turning two years old, and this is my 200th post! That seems worthy of celebration. In other words, let’s have some cake. So while you dig in (chocolate layer cake with chocolate icing) feast on my 200th offering. And as they used to sing in the theme song to Golden Girls, thank you for being a friend!

In all the years I’ve been writing this blog (yeah, I think ‘two’ can be ‘all’) I have refrained from getting political. And that’s not easy for me. I’ve been a news junkie for as long as I can remember, and I thrive on listening to and reading about all things political.

But I decided before FITNY ever saw the light of day that it would be neutral, politically. No commentary, no opinion. Just those slice of life stories that (I hope) make you laugh.

And even I get overdosed on the political at times, and this week has definitely been one of those times. It’s been hard to keep from shrieking at the ‘leaders’ who have their moments in front of the camera and use them to blame others, no matter which party they represent.

So please believe me when I tell you that what you are about to view is completely apolitical. It’s a simple observation that the gentleman who is third in line to the presidency was recently seen quoting Sheldon Cooper (played by Jim Parsons) of The Big Bang Theory. This is frightening. Not politically, but socially. Sheldon is brilliant, but insufferable.

I recently caught a news snippet of John Boehner, Speaker of the House, (and yes, if you remember your high school civics class, you know that in the event of the unthinkable, and the president AND vice president were both incapacitated, John “Cry Me a River” Boehner would become President of the United States.) Boehner was in front of a microphone saying, “If ands and buts were candy and nuts, every day would be Christmas.”

http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7110956n

Now I admit to being a little sheltered at times, but the only other time I had EVER heard that expression was earlier this year on The Big Bang Theory, when Sheldon told his friends, “If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d ALL have a merry Christmas!” Which, to be fair, rings a little sweeter than the Boehner version.

[Sorry, but despite my best efforts, I could not find the clip of this rare and special moment in the annals of situation comedy to share with you, my treasured readers...]

So if we were worried about leadership, set those fears aside. Speaker Boehner is taking his cues from a genius-level Ph. D. physicist: Sheldon Cooper. Even if he is fictional. Hey, the guy’s won an Emmy and a Golden Globe, so at least he’s distinguished.

Check it out. And wipe the cake crumbs from your chin—there’s no candy and nuts to be found here, and Christmas is nearly five months away. Good thing there's an anniversary to celebrate! Cheers!

More of the Birds and the Boys

2011-07-20T05:00:00.009-05:00

When last we met, I told you everything you need to know about the birds and the boys. I showed you pictures of a bird building a nest in the hanging planter of geraniums on my deck. I also took my life in my hands to show you a photo of my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU), handling a bit of yard work. Why was that taking my life into my hands? Let’s just say that CoTU was less than pleased with being ‘outed’ as the kind of outdoorsman who wears more protective gear to trim shrubs than certain sherpas take to Kilimanjaro. I’m just saying…

Now why he actually posed for the pictures with no caveats as to their possible publication in this blog is beyond me. It’s been nearly two years since I started this venture and he might have noticed that just about everything is fair game. Then again, I’ve been with this man for more than 16 years, and you’d think that I might have noticed that he doesn’t always notice. Anything. But that’s another blog post for another day.

Meanwhile, I have new photos to share! The baby birds hatched a couple of days ago! When we first peeked into the nest, it was amazing to see lots of little semi-translucent bodies, wings and skulls that were scarcely recognizable as birds. Now they have fuzzy heads and the clear beginnings of feathers on those teensy bodies. It’s a remarkable thing to see.

Day One: Look at those limp bodies, and that one open yaw!

New definition of 'piling on'. Such bug eyes!

Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!

See the mama bird at far left? She's going in with food!

Look at this dude! Talk about a bad hair day! His fuzziness reminds me of the famous Albert Einstein photo!

Now when I post a photo of a deck sighting of spindly legs, and open mouth waiting to be fed*, I may have to clarify: is it a bird—or is it CoTU?

*One of CoTU’s favorite questions, asked frequently throughout the day is “Is it time for me to be fed yet?”

The Birds and the Boys

2011-07-15T05:00:00.003-05:00

Yes, it’s summertime here in St. Louis, as it doubtless is where you are, too. The thing is that summer in St. Louis means living in a steam bath. We are known for the Gateway Arch, the fabulous baseball Cardinals, toasted ravioli, and the Endless Humidity Festival. It’s seriously like living in a terrarium with countless heat lamps accelerating the moisture content of the air. It’s hard to breathe outside on days such as the ones we’re having now. The heat index here was 115 a few days ago, and unlike what they say in Phoenix, it is NOT a dry heat.

Yes. I am done complaining.

But there are other signs of summer. Look at this! These adorable LBJ-birds (Little Brown Jobbies) are building a nest INSIDE OF MY GERANIUM pot! I watched them over the course of several days, and they were diligent, indeed. Now the nest is complete, and contains four little bird eggs. It doesn’t get much cuter than this.

And speaking of cute, check out my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU). Of course, when he sees this post, he may decide to become my EX-husband, but hey—he posed for the pictures. What did he expect? He ventured out one day (before the heat index went into the 100s) to trim some shrubs, and when I took him some cold water this is what I saw! I had to get the camera.

People go on safari with less gear than this. He’s wearing safety glasses, hearing protection (that leaf blower IS noisy, after all), a knee support brace, and a dust mask. Yes, my intrepid protector, braving the front yard.

Thanks, CoTU, for your caution and good sense. Good thing you don’t have to build a nest inside a hanging planter. You don’t have the equipment for it.

Headlines, Deadlines and Unbelievable Stuff

2011-07-07T11:12:00.000-05:00

A couple of observations on the small and somewhat obscure items in the news, submitted for your amusement.

First, this tiny headline caught my eye in the newspaper recently: Wounded man dies in restaurant.

Nothing special, you think? Well, maybe, except for one thing. The article went on to say that the death actually took place in a White Castle. I’ve never heard anyone refer to White Castle as a ‘restaurant’ before.

Second, there’s a report that 54-year old Catherine Maria Pileggi was upset that her multi-millionaire boyfriend wanted to end their relationship. She stabbed the 70-year old Ronald Vinci several times in the chest, shot him in the head, cut his throat and fractured his skull, according to the police in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. She said he died in a fall.

Really? From what—the 104th floor balcony you pushed him out of? Shouldn’t you have thought of something just a touch more believable before you stabbed, shot and slashed him? What were the odds that the police (not to mention the undertaker) weren’t going to notice those nasty and bleeding wounds?

That’s all for today from FITNY—where funny is STILL the new young, and where you still can’t fix stupid.

Storm Center @ Baby Central

2011-06-28T05:00:00.002-05:00

I attended a really fun baby shower this weekend! The parents-to-be chose not to know the gender of their baby till it’s born. I kind of love that—the fun of the surprise appeals to me. This is not to say that I don’t completely understand wanting to know in advance so that you can purchase the clothes and accessories that go along with your baby’s gender identity. I do get that, and I respect both positions. It’s great that parents now have a choice.

These particular parents are decorating the baby’s room in a monkey theme, and the most adorable (and completely gender-neutral) gifts were opened! More fun than a barrel of –well, I won’t go there.

So anyhoo, the thing about showers in general is that there are generally games played that just make you wish you were home in bed with a fever of 104 and body aches. They normally range from annoying and cloying to degrading and undignified. Not this time.

Little Mama’s sister handed everyone a diaper pin upon entering the home. You were to hold onto your pin, and not say the word “baby” throughout the shower. If you heard someone else say the ‘b’ word, other than the Little Mama or the hostess, you were entitled to confiscate her pin. The guest with the most pins at the end of the shower won a prize. Best. Shower game. Ever. Props to the genius Auntie!

Back to the issue of sex. (Not yours—the baby’s.)

There was a recent article in the newspaper (remember those?) about a Canadian couple rearing their baby without regard to gender. The baby is named Storm (as in Storm of controversy?), and the mother is quoted as saying that Storm should be able to develop his or her own sexual identity without having to conform to social stereotypes or bow to predetermined expectations associated with gender.

I get this, too. It’s kind of a noble objective, but talk about an uphill struggle… Sure, now the baby’s four months old, but what happens when it’s four years old and needs to use the bathroom at school? Gonna have to choose one of those doors and eschew the other.

Storm’s probably got some cool monkey clothes, though. And I do like the name. Not that there’s anything wrong with Pat, Chris, or a couple of other either-way-type names…

This all reminds me of something I read in the ‘70s called The Story of Baby X, or some reasonable facsimile thereof. It was a fictionalized version of the same controversy, and was completely cutting edge at the time. It made for some good reading, and really provoked some thoughts about how we program our kids along gender lines.

Wish I could find it now. I might share it with Little Mama. Or with Storm’s family…

Meantime, it’s something to ponder.

Happy Birthday to Decrepit Old Me

2011-06-15T05:00:00.005-05:00

You may officially wish me a happy birthday! I celebrated yesterday, and let’s just say that there will be a social security check coming in the near future. You do the math.

So it was a wonderful day—lovely cards, e-cards and Facebook posts wishing me a happy day, a prosperous year, good health, long life, clean fingernails, and something about memory loss… I forgot exactly what. It was great to be remembered by so many people, and I enjoyed every single message.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) took me out for a fun day’s adventure. We went to Soulard Market, which is a wonderful indoor/outdoor produce/meat/spice market. We walked up and down several blocks in the neighborhood and had a fantastic lunch at Bogart’s Smokehouse on South 9th St. Wow! We love barbecue, and this was an amazing—I said AMAZING lunch. Don’t mob the place, we still want to be able to get in there when we want. Mmmm… the brisket and the pulled pork were both great, and the sides were wonderful, too. Yeah—I kind of dropped the diet notion for today because it’s my %*#&#@ birthday. Wanna make something of it?

Anyhoo, we were driving home (skipped the museum plan in favor of a nap) and I thanked CoTU for not taking me to Denny’s for a free meal. I might have complained just a little about turning 62. CoTU commented that when we met I was a kind of ‘chipper young thing’. (These are words not normally in his vocabulary.)

I said, “Yeah, and now I’m old and decrepit.”

Boldly, he said, “That’s okay—it’s only going to get worse.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m working out almost every day-- that’s not a great observation to make!”

“No—that was a compliment! Like saying I love you more today than yesterday, but less than tomorrow. Um… but the opposite.”

“See,” I answered. “So it’s the opposite of a compliment, which in our language is called an insult.”

“I don’t think it applies,” he replied. “At least not to me.”

“Right—men can age and not worry about it. They think they’re attractive no matter how out-of-shape and wrinkled they get,” I observed.

“Wait—are we talking about ME now?” he asked.

“Would it matter? I mean we thought we were old at 50. Now we look at those pictures and think we looked pretty good. So in ten years, we’ll look back and wonder what we were complaining about at this age, too. Let’s just enjoy it while we can.”

“Okay. Want to stop for dessert on the way home?” he wondered aloud.

“Your pickle was dessert,” I advised. “Save room for dinner.”

Cheated by Time!

2011-06-06T05:00:00.005-05:00

Here’s a perfect example of a mixed blessing.

I’m just days away from another $%&#* birthday. I will turn 62 on said birthday. I recognize that not everyone got this far, and that, in fact, it’s something of a privilege to still be up and about at this age. You know what they say, every day above ground is a good day. They say that. They’re pretty much right.

Still… what don’t hurt, don’t work. They say that, too.

So as 62 has been on my radar screen, I’d been thinking, well, at least now I’ll qualify for a “Senior Discount” at Kohl’s!

Yeah. Then this came in the mail.

Whoops-- she's tipsy!

Now the Senior Discount applies to anyone age 60 or more! Somehow I feel cheated.

There had better be cake...

Let's Not Give Pigs a Bad Name

2011-06-01T05:00:00.004-05:00

Men and scandals. Now there’s a topic to mine.

Men and sex scandals. Nearly synonymous with the former.

I think I could write all night and day about the number of prominent men who have brought about their own downfalls by their sexual misdeeds. I’ll keep it short.

Last week the awful stories about the head of the International Monetary Fund attacking a maid in a New York hotel was a painful episode. Infidelity is one thing—assault is quite another. Then followed quickly the Schwarzenegger announcement of an out-of-wedlock son. Gasp—the Governator cheated on Maria?

In the wake of these stories, Time Magazine’s cover read “What Makes Powerful Men Act Like Pigs”, to which the ever-witty Roxanne Roberts responded (on the best hour of radio of the week: Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me on NPR) (yes, remember—nerdissimo here) that there was no reason to badmouth pigs.

So, need we recap the famous and powerful men who have self-destructed on the basis of their inability to control their sexual urges? Sure, why not?

To name a few, let’s start with John Edwards. I used to think he was a highly principled man of good character, a man who stood up for the little guy and wanted to narrow the gap between the haves and the have-nots. Lesson to be learned? --don’t rely on me for a judge of character. I missed that one by a mile. Bad enough he cheated on his wife (and kids), then he lied about it for a protracted period of time, and denied being the father of a child who he now acknowledges is his. Meanwhile, his wife of twenty-plus years was dying of cancer. Criminy, John—you’re pathetic.

Tiger Woods—the serial philanderer, no—make that multi-philanderer, or serial/multi-philanderer. Am I the only one who lost track of the number of women he was involved with? This guy was on top of the world career-wise, had a gorgeous wife and kids, and threw it away. Now he can’t seem to get his game back, lost his family, lost his endorsements and the respect of the general public. Really, Tiger—for what? You were a guy who seemed to have his moral compass straight. Your parents brought you up with solid values and a strong ethical base. What happened?

Then we can go on to people like Senator David Vitter (R-LA) who was on the D.C. “Madam” list, and acknowledged that he was a customer of the call girls. There’s New York congressman Christopher Lee who had to resign over e-mailing a shirtless photo of himself to a woman who was, sadly, not his wife.

There’s the history of Wayne Hays, Wilbur Mills, Gary Hart, Bob Packwood, Gary Condit, Jack Ryan, Mark Foley, Elliot Spitzer, John Ensign, Mark Sanford (remember the “Appalachian Trail” story?), and of course, the sad impeachment of an otherwise distinguished president, Bill Clinton. Gosh, and I nearly forgot Larry Craig, known for his “wide stance” in the men’s room.

So what can we learn from all this?

Well, now there’s an article in the paper about New York congressman Anthony Weiner (D) sending a “lewd” photo of himself via Twitter to a 21-year old college student. Female. Weiner claims that someone hacked into his account and did this without his knowledge.

Hm.

It’s hard to know what to think. His gender has set him up to make us doubtful of his claims of innocence. But it’s still possible that he has been wronged, and was set up by a cretinous hacker. We are not here to judge, after all.

But I am reminded of a line from an old tv show from the ‘80s. A father was lamenting the fact that his daughter, Rita, was a slut. His friend tried to console him with the line, “You name a daughter ‘Rita’—what do you expect?”

I just wish his name was not Weiner.

Words: Rare, Medium and Overdone

2011-05-25T12:47:00.000-05:00

Trends, fads, fashions—they can be seen in so many aspects of our lives. Not just hair and clothing, but we see trends in architecture, landscaping, foods, cars and speech. Yes. Speech.

Words come and go, and we’ve recognized that before here at FITNY. (No, that does not stand for Fitness-New York! Think about it!) But now I am not referring to the new additions to our dictionaries that are announced annually. I’m just talking about usage. Well, no—I’m talking about OVER-usage.

Since I tend to use this space as a forum for complaining and kvetching about things that irk me, I’ve tried to hold back on this topic, as it could be viewed as petty. Well, petty or not, here I go.

In the Rumsfeld days, the overused phrase of the day was “connect the dots.” You could not listen to a sound bite of a single politician or public leader without them connecting the dots on one issue or another. Previously, we all reached conclusions, but that became passe’ as we learned to connect the dots. That expression is still with us, but its use seems to have abated somewhat.

The first time I think I noticed this was in the 1970s when Richard Nixon used his “let me say this about that” and “let me make one thing perfectly clear.” Well, actually, I think those expressions became overused more as a way to mock Nixon than anything else, but still…

Recently we’ve adopted “at the end of the day” as the expression du jour. I don’t know who started it, but again—you can’t sit through a newscast (remember: I am the Uber-Nerd, I still watch tv news) without hearing this numerous times. People used to say things like “when all is said and done”, or “in the final analysis”, but no more! Now at the end of the day you’ve heard at the end of the day a zillion times. It’s boring.

My current peeve has been over the extreme overuse of “iconic”. No one calls anything ‘characteristic’, well-known or ‘representative’ any more. I think Brian Williams used “iconic” forty-seven times in last night’s broadcast alone. Well, not really. But he thinks everything is iconic apparently, and since he does at least one story a night about dogs, the dog lovers are iconic, the shrimpers on the Louisiana gulf coast are iconic, their boats are iconic, the storm damage is iconic, the Joplin hospital is “now iconic”, and the rescue shelters are iconic. Really.

But the real reason I bring up this topic at all is that I’m here to predict the next highly overused expression in our society. Ready? Here it is: full stop.

What?

Yep, in England the period at the end of a sentence is called a full stop. It’s cute, it’s quaint (to me), and I like it when I hear a Brit use it.

But Sunday I heard David Gregory use it on Meet the Press. (There’s my nerdiness showing again.) David is not a Brit, hence it was not cute. The very next day I heard an American pundit use it on the radio. I’ve heard it twice since. I foresee a spate of “full stop” usage that’s going to grate on my nerves. I expect it will become epidemic within a short time.

I’m going to have to put on my eyeshades and armbands, whip out an adding machine (yes, I’m that old) and start tallying up the usage. It’s about to explode, and I’m just saying you heard it here first.

Don’t thank me. All I did was connect the dots.

Don't Leave Us, Skype!

2011-05-11T05:00:00.003-05:00

So Microsoft wants to buy Skype. I guess they’ll call it MicroSkype.

Help me understand this: Skype is not exactly profitable. Its current owners paid $2 billion for Skype a few years ago. Now Bill Gates is paying those guys $8.5 billion. That’s a tidy little profit, according to my in-depth analysis. (See preceding paragraph.) Wish I had something Bill Gates wanted to buy…

Anyhoo, it sounds like they’ll start charging us for something we’ve been using for free for a long time. That’s going to p-, p--, perturb people off. But after all, they have to do something to recoup their $8.5 billion, I suppose.

Or perhaps they could just throw some ads on it, as so many of the popular websites have done. Isn’t that how we still manage to get online news from so many sources without actually paying for it? (Except for you, New York Times—you’ve dumped on us again.)

I mean, when my daughter connects with us through Skype, maybe she could hold up a can of tuna fish, or a tube of toothpaste, and it would be like product placement in the movies and tv. You know, like when you’re watching Modern Family and there’s a gallon of Minute Maid orange juice on the counter. You get the subtle message to buy Minute Maid, without anyone actually saying it.

When the grandkids come on to video-chat with us, they can show us their current favorite toys and books, and in this way, Lego, Toy Story 3, and Leap Frog get their own commercials, too. Yes, we’re a small audience, but we are the easy marks for those fresh-faced, adorable little kids who call us “Grandma” and “Grandpa”. That ought to be worth something.

If Zachary’s wearing a Nike tee shirt, or Kaitlyn’s in Izod, bingo! –instant ad!

My kids and I often exchange reading suggestions, and end up reading a lot of the same books. Maybe we could line up some of our favorite volumes on our desks when we Skype. So many possibilities…

I’m not sure how any of this would benefit Microsoft, but I have time to work that out. I’ll get back to you on that.

Since all those predictions of videophones that were so prevalent in the ‘60s never came true, and Skype came along to fulfill that empty promise, we’ve come to rely on the technology to allow us to see our loved ones, no matter how far away they are. The fact that it started out as a free service was totally unbelievable. If that now changes, it’s going to really upset a lot of the 170 million Skype users.

We’re likely to cause an uproar. We might even label it Gates-Gate.

But in the meantime, Mr. Gates, you wanna buy a blog?

Welcome to Nerdville

2011-05-04T05:00:00.004-05:00

I’ve told you many times before that my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I are nerds. And while I don’t like to brag—we’re world-class nerds. I mean, other nerds are embarrassed to know us. That’s just how ultra-nerdy we are.

Here’s what I’m saying.

We can’t just replace our dishwasher when it dies. We research it to death. Other people watch the ads in the newspaper (see? –non-nerds don’t even get a newspaper) to see where they can get the brand they like, get the best price, or free delivery. Us? No, we start with Consumer Reports (yep! –we have an online membership) and from there we move on to online chats, forums, even Amazon’s website to read user reviews. Nerdville.

Same thing with a cleaning service to do a “move-out” deep cleaning of my in-laws’ condo. Don’t just get a name from a neighbor—no, we go to Angie’s List, comb through their ratings and reviews, make the phone calls, ask the questions, and make an informed decision.

Last week it was the same thing when our freezer bit the dust. Research, research, research. Look at the ratings, the dimensions, the wattage, the energy efficiency, the reliability—have I left anything out? No. Then I scour the websites of the big local and national retailers to find the best deal on the make and model we identify as what we want.

So. Do you think I’m gloating about what a great job we do? Not even close.

1. Dishwasher: The compartment for the drying agent leaked from day one. Hello, repairman! Our glasses don’t fit well in the upper racks, so loading it is not pleasant to this day.

2. The cleaning service that was supposed to take four hours to clean the condo took EIGHT! And they didn’t even touch the oven! What? I hesitate to tell you that they turned off the refrigerator—a big no-no in a vacant condo.

3. Freezer: Can’t turn it off. The instruction book says to press the electronic pad’s ‘down’ button till you get to ‘0’. Sorry—it goes down to ‘1’ and no further. Repairman’s scheduled for Thursday. [I was turning it off to wash down the interior, per the book’s instructions, before loading it.]

Moral of the story? Quit the investigation, bag the inquiries and the research, and pick one you like the looks of.

At least you won’t feel cursed by the universe and doomed to make the wrong decision. Not to mention the time you’ll save.

Weaving Friendship

2011-04-27T05:00:00.002-05:00

I have a friend who’s fortunate enough to spend the winter months with her husband in Naples, Florida. Wait—that came out wrong. They live together all year, it’s just that they travel to the warm and sunny gulf coast of Florida to escape the relatively harsh winters we have here. You know, they’re called ‘Snowbirds’.

Anyway, because my friend is witty and clever, she refers to this sojourn as “Adult Winter Camp”. They rent a condo, and have made friends with many other couples who reside there. There is a clubhouse, and there are activities sufficient to keep anyone from even thinking of becoming bored.

When my friend posted on Facebook that she was at Adult Winter Camp, I asked her to make me a lanyard. That is what I think of as a good camp activity. I suppose I could have asked her to make me an ashtray, but I’m pretty certain that ashtrays are completely passe.

Ashtrays and lanyards are all I know about summer camp, and I couldn’t think of any correlated winter equivalents. So I stuck with the lanyard.

I remember trying to weave those doggone strips of plastic into a cohesive length of consistent proportions during a summer of playground ‘day camp’ at our local school. I believe I was about seven years old. I failed miserably. Starting the thing was tough, but making it smooth and even was even tougher. My red and white pieces were so discombobulated I was afraid that the outcome would be pink. I hated pink. I hated failing. No lanyard resulted.

Meanwhile, my brother made a fine lanyard. Was he nearly three years older than I? Yep, but that did not assuage my feelings of total inadequacy. If they’d been grading at the playground, they’d have given me a D-, just to keep me from having to repeat Lanyard 101. My brother? I’d say he’d have gotten an A. Okay, more like an A+. Not that I’m bitter.

So my friend returned from Naples a few days ago, just in time to come to the April meeting of our stellar book club, The Bookees. I was the host, and when the very tan and smiling woman in question arrived, she presented me with a lanyard! Blue and yellow, it is ten inches of sheer loveliness! I laughed so hard I almost cried—she took my joke and ran with it! Now I’ve got a cool gift from a sweet friend, and if they gave grades at Adult Winter Camp, she’d have gotten an A. Okay, an A+.

I was so touched by her thoughtfulness that I ran upstairs to get my copy of Billy Collins’ “The Trouble With Poetry”. I read his amazing and insightful poem “The Lanyard” to the assembled Bookees before we began our discussion of our featured book. I maintain that this simple work is the single best summation of the mother/child relationship in all of literature. Yes, all. Read it here, you won’t be sorry. Billy Collins is a former poet-laureate of the United States, and I recommend all of his books. Yes, all. Again.

Official thanks to my friend, the lanyard-maker. Next month the Bookees meet at her house. I’m making her an ashtray.

OMG, FYI, I'm LOL!

2011-04-06T05:00:00.003-05:00

It’s that time of year again? --already? No, I’m not talking about the daffodils blooming and the pollen counts and the school board elections. It’s time for the announcement from those fabulous people who brought us the Oxford English Dictionary! Yippee, new words added to the book that the experts credit with keeping us civilized. Wait—did I go too far? Yeah, well at least the OED, as the grown-ups call it, is considered the ultimate source authority on the English lexicon.

Now, please don’t make the unconscionable error of confusing the OED with the ODE, the Oxford Dictionary of English. The ODE people started their publication in 1998 to spell out, if you will (and you know you will), how language is used in everyday life. Last year their additions included such words as chillax and bromance.

Some of the more highly publicized additions to the OED for 2011 are not really even words, per se, but initialisms. I refer to LOL, OMG and FYI. You are reading a blog, so I will not insult your intelligence by spelling those out for you, so to speak. They join other initialisms such as IMHO, TMI and BFF, all of which were added in recent years. This year, the acronym wag was also added, and since I didn’t know what that meant, please don’t be offended by my mentioning that it stands for women and girlfriends. Wow. How did we get along without that as an official word till now?

Anyhoo…

All of which reminds me of some lunchroom talk a coworker shared with me many years ago. We were federal employees on the Presidio in San Francisco, and our lives were filled—FILLED, I tell you—with initialisms, acronyms and total alphabet soup. We worked under a CO (Commanding Officer), wrote DFs (Disposition Forms) on the R&D (Research and Development) or QA (Quality Assurance) within the DOD (Department of Defense.) We worried about RIFs (Reductions in Force), or what we now call downsizing. Do you see what I mean?

One day over lunch, my supervisor was telling some of us that he had been unloading all his job stress on his wife the night before—telling her about a meeting with the CO about R&D, an AFSCME meeting he had attended, and the DFs he’d written for the DOD. He was exhausted. Then he asked his wife about her day. “Well,” she said, “I used the MOP on the kitchen floor, took the KIDS to school, went to the A&P for FOOD, and took an NAP after lunch!” What a woman! She became our personal hero.

Was I On the Roof?

2011-03-24T05:00:00.001-05:00

I’m the kind of person who likes to deal with things openly and frankly. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a little softening of a big blow, as in the old joke about “Mom was on the roof.” You remember that one, don’t you?

A long-married couple is reluctant to take a vacation, because they are worried about the health of their elderly parents. The brother encourages them to go, saying, “I’ll look in on Mom and Dad, don’t worry.”

The couple goes on the trip, and when they return the brother is there to greet them. “How’s Mom?” the woman asks. “She’s dead,” says the brother, sipping his coffee.

“Whaaaaaat??? Mom’s dead, and that’s how you tell me? Couldn’t you even break it to me gently, ease me into it—you just blurt out MOM’S DEAD?”

“Well, how should I tell you?” the dolt asked.

The woman, flustered, said, “You know, if Fluffy had died while we were gone, you might say, ‘Gee, there was an awful accident… Fluffy was on the roof… He lost his balance and fell. I rushed him to the vet, but there was nothing they could do… Fluffy died.’ At least it would soften the blow!”

The brother nodded, and went on sipping his coffee. “Now,” the woman continued, “how’s Dad?”

“Dad was on the roof…” he began.

So, yes! –it’s wise to consider the feelings of the person you’re interacting with, whether face-to-face, on the phone, or by e-mail. I’m not talking about sugar-coating the truth, just a respectful and considerate regard for how your news, comments, opinions or information will be received.

So combine this viewpoint with the (nearly) universal disdain, dislike and abhorrence of the telephone answering menu. You know—“For business hours press 1, for directions press 2, for our fax number press 3, for complaints, hang up and dial our competitors.” Doesn’t everyone hate those? When I dial my doctor’s office I spend so much time listening to the announcements and the choices that I sometimes forget why I was calling. Oh yeah, it was about my short-term memory problems, but that’s not important right now.

Here’s where the two points I have been trying to make come together. I have had numerous occasions recently to help my father-in-law clarify some retirement issues. In so doing, I placed calls to his benefits office in the giant, well-known, Fortune 500 company he worked for. When I got through the first couple of menus, and reached the line for retirees’ benefits, I got this, “If you are calling to report a death, press 1.” Holy smoke, talk about a smack in the face! It took me aback, but I was really grateful that my 88-year old father-in-law wasn’t listening! I wondered how discouraging that must be if one of their retirees who might have serious health problems or be severely depressed placed that call and heard that as ‘option number 1’. I’m not all that old, and my health is good, and I frankly did not take kindly to hearing that. In fact, in the process of clearing up the questions we had, I reached the same recording several times in the course of the week, and each and every time it felt weird to hear those words said out loud.

So here’s my advice to you, if you happen to work in human resources, or public relations, and you have any influence whatsoever when it comes to scripting the phone recordings: think of how your message might sound to the caller.

Maybe you could try, “If you’re calling to report a retiree on the roof, press 1.”

The Plane to L.A.

2011-03-16T05:00:00.005-05:00

You never know who you're going to end up sitting next to on an airplane. Countless stories have been told about the mis-matching of seatmates: someone who wants to be left alone to work, read or sleep finds that the adjacent seat is occupied by a person who wants to make a new best friend. It's frustrating and annoying and you can't do a thing about it.

Last week I was on a flight to LAX; due to a mix-up I ended up being one of the last eight people to board the plane. I knew I was going to be relegated to a middle seat.

As I reached the third row, an attractive blonde woman with1980s eyeliner and artificially inflated lips grabbed my arm and said furtively, "Do you want to sit here? No babies, no fat people-- it’s a great row!" I was a bit taken aback, and half-expected her to open her overcoat and offer to sell me a Rolex for ten bucks.

But I like to sit in the front of the plane, so I said, "Sure," and scooted in. She even offered to shove my coat into the overhead bin for me.

As we both settled into our seats, she said how glad she was to have a ‘normal’ person in the middle. Clearly, mistaking me for ‘normal’ was a key mistake on her part, but that’s not important right now.

Half an hour into our flight, Ms. Aisle Seat leaned over me and addressed Ms. Window Seat excitedly: "So what do you do-- I heard you talking about casting?” (Apparently she’d been on a phone call before I boarded.)

The startled woman in the window seat gave a simple, dignified answer. "I'm a manager, and I scout talent," she said.

Ms. Aisle Seat gushed, "I starred in _________ and _________. I'm Cindy Lou Picketfence! I used to do a lot of informercials! I sold more product than anyone else on tv in the ‘90s! I also developed a line of food supplements!"

The promo went on quite a bit longer than that, and of course that's not verbatim, but her name's not Cindy Lou Picketfence, either. These shows were like the “Friends” and “Law and Order” of the 1980s. She was not the star of these programs, but she had long-running roles, and that's certainly impressive. So while you probably wouldn’t recognize her name, you certainly know the shows.

Cindy Lou kept telling us (by this time, my book was put away) tales of her costars, and what they’re doing now. Okay, this was pretty entertaining, especially when she trashed her husband's celebrity ex-wife, but I did feel a bit like the old maid aunt chaperoning the cheerleaders’ party. I was captive, yet strangely unable to participate.

A couple of times I offered to switch seats with the actress, just to get out of their way. But she was committed to staying on the aisle because she had two tiny dogs in their carrier in front of her feet.

Amidst a lot of "Do you know so-and-so?“ and “Remember Whosits?“ these two found out that they actually grew up in the same town. I'm here to tell you, folks, that although people bemoan St. Louisans asking, "where'd you go to high school?", that is not a query limited to our burg. These women were from southern California, and they simultaneously blurted that one out! I laughed out loud, and I guess they'll never know why. They learned that they went to the same school, about ten years apart, and knew a lot of the same people.

Ye Olde High School

Small world. Smaller plane. And a teeny weenie middle seat.

Seeds of Many Meanings

2011-03-09T05:00:00.001-06:00

When you go out looking for yarn in California, you might get more than you bargained for.

My daughter and I were heading over to a yarn shop in Sacramento while I was out there visiting. We both knew it might not be open, given that this was a Sunday. Well, we were going on a whim, since we had been in that general vicinity on another errand, so it was no big deal.

As we approached the strip mall in question, she pointed to the sign that said “Kelly’s Yarns” with an “Open” sign in the window, and a handful of cars in the parking lot, so we pulled in and parked feeling pretty optimistic.

Kelly’s was next to a shop called “Green Pastures Hydroponics“. My daughter hesitated as she took her keys out of the ignition. “Um, Mom…” she began, “The place next door--it might be a medical marijuana dispensary…” She seemed very concerned that I might be appalled.

“Really?” I asked. “What makes you think that? I don’t see any of the standard buzzwords, you should pardon the expression. Besides, don‘t forget I lived in San Francisco in 1974, so I‘ve seen pretty much everything.”

“I’m just saying,” she explained, “that so many storefronts in California that offer plants actually turn out to be ‘clinics’ for the dispensing of medical marijuana.”

“Well, what’s weird is that both shops are marked ‘Suite 130’. And come to think of it, the plant place door says ‘Use other door’, and the only other door is on the yarn shop. Hmmm… At the very least, this is a little peculiar.” After all, I thought, they could have saved some money and materials and just shared one sign: “Kelly’s Yarn and Weed”, or “Bong and Bling“. I mean on “Harry’s Law” the window is painted with “Harriet’s Law and Fine Shoes”, so there’s a precedent. Sort of…

We went in. Along the right side of the spacious establishment were rows and rows of lovely wooden bins with a gorgeous array of colorful, seductive yarns-- silks, cottons, wools, blends-- you name it, it was there. Pattern books, supplies, knitting needles (also known as ‘sticks‘), totes-- all the things that make me want to spend money like a drunken sailor. (No offense to any drunken sailors who might be reading this.) I can resist shoes, purses, jewelry and lots of other things women often get accused (sometimes rightfully) of overspending on, but let me loose in a yarn shop or a fabric shop, and I’m likely to leave with a slightly melted Visa card.

Meanwhile, on the left side of the store, there were multiple rows of planting and growing supplies for the budding home-based plant aficionado. There was an endless array of grow-lights, plant stands, terrariums, seeds and nutrient products.

A young woman came out from behind the counter under the hydroponics sign and offered to help us. We told her we were just going to browse some yarns. She informed us that the owner of the yarn shop wasn’t in, but that if we wanted to buy anything, she could handle that. We thanked her, and went back to our petting of the sweet, soft hanks of promise.

If the hydroponics are ‘just add water’, then the yarns seem to me to be “Instant Sweater”-- just add sticks (and a whole lot of time.) So maybe if I were opening a yarn store, I’d call it “Sweater on a Stick”. And if I were opening a fabric store, I’d want to call it “Cutting Edge”. These are just two of the reasons I’m not opening either one.

The woman from plantville came back several more times to make sure we didn’t need help. I should have asked her if we could put some yarn and knitting needles under her grow lights to make a sweater. But since I didn’t want my daughter to disown me, I kept my thoughts to myself.

Anyway, it was a quiet Sunday in the strip mall, and no plants or supplies were sold while we were there.

We did, however, make a dent in the yarn supply. And the pattern my daughter chose? I must confess-- it’s in the Seed Stitch.

What Does it All Mean?

2011-03-02T05:00:00.002-06:00

I saw a decal on a car window in my grocery store parking lot yesterday. It read “Second-Generation Air Bags”. I thought, is that something to be proud of? I mean, do you really want to brag about that? Doesn’t that mean your parents talked too much, too?

Which reminds me, when Lady Gaga won a Grammy some weeks ago, does that mean they gave her mother a Great-Grammy? I’m just asking…

And last March I paid $69.99 for twelve months of virus protection, guaranteed. So how come I have gotten two colds this year? What’s up with that?

And why am I asking these questions...

If You Can't Count on This...

2011-02-23T05:00:00.008-06:00

Some things you just believe in. Experience teaches you that you can count on them. The sun rising in the east, setting in the west. The neighbor’s dog barking you awake at 6:30 every morning. The Cubs blowing any National League Central Division lead they may hold. Google Maps getting you where you want to go.

Today, that last maxim of the 21st century fell.

Three friends (C, K, and D) and I planned an outing to a quilt exhibit in a museum in a nearby town. We had been to this town before, but not to this particular museum, so yesterday, in an attempt to be efficient, trustworthy, loyal, brave and display all other valued personal characteristics, I thought I’d go online, get the museum’s exact address and print the driving directions for our sojourn.

We met up at C’s house and got started on our way. The first half of the trip was a no-brainer. We knew we were going to head north on I-Whatever, then take the Whatchamacallit Exit leading us to the bridge to the destination town. K was driving, and I rode shotgun, Google Maps directions in my hot little hands.

Just as we approached the end of the bridge, D said, “Turn right as you come off the bridge.” Ruh-roh… I said, “Um, the directions say to turn left.” But one of our friends who was actually exhibiting a quilt in this show had told D to go right. This left K in a quandary, not knowing what to do. At this point, D waffled a little, and said maybe our friend got it wrong, and as a group we just wanted to punt.

[I might gently point out that said friend and D were once in a car heading from St. Louis to Paducah, Kentucky, when they realized they were lost. They managed to ask someone for help, and were told that they were in Indiana. Ever since, they have borne the rallying cry: They’ve moved Paducah to Indiana!”]

Our intrepid driver went right, but in very short order, we all kind of jointly decided that we ought to hang a u-ie and follow the Google Maps directions. Mm-hmm.

On we went, 6.2 miles till you take a right here, then 2.9 miles and take a left there, 3.4 miles to the Homer Simpson Parkway, then left at the barn from another planet. We did just as the instructions said, and the mileage and the roads were all just as they said. We joked that this was going to end us up right where we made that original u-turn. Ah, if only…

The only problem was, and I do hate to nit-pick, that there was never a museum to be had at the end of the route.

We thought we were being taken to the middle of nowhere, but it turned out to be about 6.1 miles past the middle of nowhere. Cornfields to the left of us, cornfields to the right of us (all whacked down to their stumpy stalks, of course).

When the last road was reached, and the green pushpin on the map indicated that we had reached our destination, we were sitting at the end of a road that was tough to even turn-around on. There was a mailbox right out of the Bates Motel with the numbers 8175 on it. The address of the museum was supposed to be 2751. The street name was not even vaguely similar to the street the museum was on.

K bravely got the car turned around, and we began to retrace our route. “I know,” I said, “I’ll call the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and he can look up the correct address online. I must have made some crazy mistake when I plugged this in to Google Maps.”

I made the call, and CoTU gamely tried to come to our rescue. He got the same address I had. He gave me the museum’s phone number, and I figured we’d call them for directions. The only problem with that idea was that I had very little ability to tell them where we’d be starting from. That’s when we decided to turn to K’s GPS system. She pulled up “Local Attractions” from the menu, plugged in the museum name, and a holier-than-thou voice with superior bone structure and a hundred-dollar haircut began issuing orders. “Proceed to the next street and turn right. (You idiot, you.)”

We were at the museum in twenty minutes. The woman at the front desk said we were the third or fourth person who described the same crazy experience trying to find the museum.

The original right turn was correct.

The quilter and D were right.

Google Maps and I were wrong.

We loved the quilt show, and most important, we were right on time for our lunch reservation at a lovely local tea room. We laughed about the odyssey over our salads, and D generously said, “At least we saw a lot of things we’d never seen before!” I said, “Yeah, that’s what Dante said in the third circle of hell, but I don’t think that made it a good thing.”

Moral of the story? If you want to play it safe, stay home, make yourself a quilt, and have lunch at your kitchen table. On the other hand, if you want to have an adventure with some great friends, print out a map, get in the car, and hit the road. Just make sure you have a GPS, a charged-up cell phone, and a driver with a sense of humor.

Here I am with D and K; C graciously took the photo! We're standing in front of the wonderful quilts on display.

Tip For the Day

2011-02-09T05:00:00.003-06:00

Right, I’ve never pretended to be Heloise with helpful hints for the housewife, nor Fly Lady who counsels her faithful internet readers to clean the kitchen sink each morning to set us off on the right foot. But here’s what I’ve learned:

I can save myself a peck of aggravation if I wash out my sink cloth in hot water as soon as I set foot in the kitchen.

Why? Because before I know it, I will reach for it to wipe up spilled coffee grounds, oatmeal dust (you know what I mean—admit it), or a drip of Coffee-Mate from that dadburned ‘new-and-improved’ bottle design. And unless I follow my own advice, that cloth will be dry as a board from having hung on the faucet overnight, and I will have to stop and rinse it out first. This annoys me, so I have been trying to learn the habit of wetting it and wringing it out as soon as I get started on breakfast, lunch or dinner prep. It’s actually making my life a little less frustrating. Every little bit helps.

Now. What I can’t learn. (I know, we don’t have space enough for all that here in this little old blog, but we can skim a tiny part of the surface.)

About six years ago my lovely friend R. and I went to the dentist together. This may sound a little peculiar, but R. is 98 years old, and does not drive. We go to the same dentist, so we make our appointments together, and I get to spend the day with a delightful and caring friend. After we get our respective check-ups, we go to lunch, and sometimes do a little shopping before we go home. But I digress…

So R. and I were washing our hands in the restroom after our lunch date, and it was winter. As I reached up to take some paper towels from the dispenser, I complained to her, “Why do they always seem to put the paper towels up so high that the water runs from your wet hands up your sleeves? It’s just maddening, especially in the winter! Now the cuffs of my sweater will be wet and cold for an hour!”

R. was sympathetic, and agreed completely with me, that this was a vast conspiracy to aggravate the general public. That’s what friends are for, right?

But then I noticed that she had tucked some of those same paper towels under her arm. She didn’t have to reach up to the dispenser and get her sleeves wet. She gently mentioned that she had started doing this ‘recently’ to avoid this exact problem.

Hm.

I need to do that, too. That’s a habit I should really adopt. So I have tried. When I walk into a public restroom, I tell myself to grab the paper towels before I wash my hands.

Has it worked? Not yet. The 98-year old can remember to do it EVERY TIME, and I don’t think I’ve done it more than three times in the six years I’ve been thinking about it. Of course, I’m not in a public restroom every day…

But what does this tell me? If I put this into a context that includes my sink cloth hint, perhaps I just subconsciously value wet over dry… Is there hope for me? I really wonder… But I’m hoping that one of these days I’ll stop asking myself why, if R. can do this consistently, why oh why can’t I?

When Bad Movies Happen to Good People

2011-02-02T05:00:00.002-06:00

Ah, the beloved internet! An opportunity to speak one’s mind, blow one’s horn, or tell one’s story. Or in this case, to rat oneself out as a lowbrow counter-intellectual.

Confession: I have just wasted 101 minutes of my life on the worst movie ever made. What’s worse, I sensed this from the previews, but watched it anyway. My excuse? –my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) wanted to see it. He twisted my arm (figuratively, of course), but that’s really no excuse for having given more than an hour and a half of what precious life is left to me on this planet to such a horrendous film. In fact, it’s so bad, it gives bad movies a bad name.

I can’t yet bring myself to tell you the title, but I’ll try to work up to it.

This whole nightmarish episode started innocently enough when we were watching a completely respectable, yet mediocre movie called “Date Night”. Right—if you’ve seen it you know it’s not great, but not embarrassingly bad either. And if you like Tina Fey and Steve Carell, you’re willing to put up with a crazy and predictable storyline. I had rented the DVD just for something to make us laugh, after a tough week with two funerals and nine inches of snowfall.

The situation germinated during the previews on the rented DVD. A buddy movie, four guys (three middle-aged and one Gen-Xer, cavorting in a ski lodge, in and out of a hot tub, and clearly caught in a time warp that has taken them back to 1985. Now if you recognize the set-up, you’re as big a lowlife as I am. Could you possibly ever admit that you’ve sat down and watched “Hot Tub Time Machine”? And for those of you who think I am making this up, let me just say, if only it were so…

Now in my defense, the movie starred John Cusack who I grew quite fond of after Hi Fidelity, About a Boy and Must Love Dogs. Okay, I should have stopped after Hi Fidelity and About a Boy, but at least I’m keeping mum about America’s Sweethearts, which must at least rank in the top five worst movies I’ve ever seen… So CoTU is cracking up over the previews for this so-called movie, and I’m shaking my head as if I’m being force-fed The Three Stooges. Which, in essence I was, except that it was The Four Stooges.

“We’ve gotta rent this!” he gushed, laughing at the lunacy of this quartet. “Over my dead body,” I reasoned. “Come on,” he urged. “You love John Cusack! –and there’s that guy from The Office!” (Did I mention that Craig Robinson who plays Darryl Philbin on The Office was in this abomination? He is. And in case you’re wondering, he’s not Michelle Obama’s brother—that’s a different Craig Robinson.)

I groaned, grunted, moaned, and accidentally let out a single guffaw at a bit of humor that was sneaked into the previews, so I was pretty much cooked. CoTU asked me to look for it the next time I wanted to rent a comedy.

Sadly, as it turns out, I was in the library the next day to pick up a book being held for me. I could say it was “War and Peace” or “The Sun Also Rises”, but 1) I don’t lie, and 2) you wouldn’t believe me anyway. After I grabbed my book from the “Hold” shelf, I took a quick look on the DVD display. They had (believe it or not) not one, but two copies of “Hot Tub Time Machine”. I picked one up, and dutifully checked it out. (In retrospect, I can’t believe that your tax dollars and mine bought these movies for the library!)

Two minutes into the movie I tried to walk out. Said I was heading upstairs to sort my socks or alphabetize the medicine chest. CoTU implored me to stay, “This is funny stuff!” he insisted. “Puh-lease, honey, this is pathetic and gross," I countered. But he used his most persuasive voice and facial expressions, and I relented. (I should have at least used this to leverage some off-setting possibility, you know—a bargaining chip for watching one of the ‘slice of life’ movies CoTU so opposes, but I wasn’t thinking.)

So I saw the whole awful mess of a movie, and I mean to say Mess with a capital M. I’m not proud of it, except perhaps as a testament to my endurance. When it was over, CoTU had to admit that it was a terrible movie, though it provided him with a lot of laughs.

“You know what the good news is about this movie?” he asked?

“That it’s over?” I suggested.

“Nope. That it’s on your library card. Not mine!”

“Yeah, but the library’s not allowed to make that information public, and you’re the one who rented “Year One”—at Redbox.”

Who’s got the last laugh now?

Got Furniture?

2011-01-26T10:22:00.000-06:00

Have you shopped for furniture recently? I have, and because it’s been many years since I last had the experience of looking for bedroom furniture, the experience has been eye-opening. I mean, not as in ‘eye, opening’ like a trip to the optometrist, but we can talk about that later… This is about a trip to the furniture store, --er, stores.

My current mission, long overdue, is to find a new set of bedroom furniture for my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and me. Ours has been in service for too many years to admit here in print (but it rhymes with ‘shorty’), and yet it doesn’t have enough character to qualify for antique status. I guess we could continue to use it till we’re carted off to the nursing home, but where’s the fun in that? We’re hoping for another twenty to thirty years before that happens, so at this writing we can still justify the upgrade. Let’s face it, if we wait much longer, there will really be no point. Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Let me first explain that while this decision will be made jointly, CoTU is firmly, unconditionally and immutably dedicated to the principle that I should do the research, the fact-finding and the narrowing down to the top three contenders in the BFD (Bedroom Furniture Derby), at which point he will deign to enter the process and cast his vote. He likes to say that we are equal partners, but I’m pretty sure that he holds the 51% vote, and mine is 49%.

So off I went to furniture store number one. I wandered in on a snowy Saturday morning and was immediately ~~accosted~~ greeted by a lovely young woman, tastefully dressed, who offered to help me. I stammered, my mouth went dry, and I squeaked out the word ‘bedroom’. Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but she gracefully directed me to the appropriate part of the store, which is to say, everywhere.

I quickly caught on to the concept: if bedroom furniture is interspersed with living rooms, dining rooms, game rooms, etc., every shopper is ~~forced~~ encouraged to cover every square inch of the store. You might talk yourself into buying something you weren’t even shopping for. Hey, I GET marketing.

I started around the perimeter of the store, and felt like Homer Simpson, muttering, “Ooh, pretty!” and “I like it, I like it!” to myself. I found several sets to my liking, and they were more or less in the price range CoTU and I had discussed. I was off to a good start.

I exchanged ~~BFF necklaces~~ phone numbers with the saleswoman, and she gave me a catalog of the store’s wares, website information, prices, sale prices, and a recipe for Huevos Rancheros. Kidding.

On to store number two. Only a few blocks from the first store, and all the furniture was in the same price range, but no one offered to help me. I swear, I was still in the exact same clothes, driving the same car, but these people had officially declared me persona non grata. In store number one, as I moseyed around, occasionally another employee would politely inquire as to whether I’d been helped. I refrained from telling them that nobody needed more help than I did, which I think is worthy of some note. But in store number two it was a different story…

Still, not one to hold a grudge (hah, yeah—right!) I perused the entire store and made a few notes of a couple of distinct possibilities. I even pulled my camera out of my purse and photographed the key pieces in question. I’m not about to cut off my nose to spite my face.

Upward and onward, let’s see store number three! A fine gentleman offered his help and gave me his card. A good start. Unfortunately their bedroom sets fell into three basic categories: No, Hell No, and Not Without a Court Order. Even the one or two that appealed to me on a design level, failed the aesthetic test when I got up close and personal. Bummer. Although, let’s face it, when you have fewer choices on your list, the actual decision is (at least in theory) easier to make.

Have we bought the furniture? Not yet, but at least there’s a list of five sets that are in the running. When I cull it to three, set up my Excel spreadsheet for CoTU, and establish a plan for relocating the decrepit set being replaced, we should be within 90 days of making a decision. Hey, as long as we beat the nursing home pick-up van, I figure we’re okay…

Is It Spring Yet???

2011-01-18T05:00:00.005-06:00

Like most Americans, I’m tired of the cold weather. Yes, it’s only the middle of January, but I’ve had enough. Enough of super-cold temperatures, enough of the snow, ice, freezing rain (how is that different from ‘sleet’?), wintry mix (whatever that means) and slippery pavement.

Add to that the fact that my car’s heater is less than spectacular, and I am getting downright cranky. My car’s just five years old, and it’s a pretty luxurious model of its manufacturer (let’s just call it the Reliable), but the heat it produces only spews well from the dashboard. If I want my feet warmed up, I’m going to have to buy some electric socks. If it weren’t for the heated seats, I’d have turned into a human ice sculpture long ago.

I’ve asked the service manager if he could check to see if there’s a problem with my duct work or the air flow. He just shook his head and chuckled, “That’s a Reliable for ya… Never enough heat on the feet.”

Great. Why didn’t they tell me this before I bought the car? I guess they’re not known for telling you the downside of their product—who is, for that matter? But for several months a year I have to check my toes for frostbite at the end of the day.

Anyway, my Reliable went back to the dealer last week for some routine service. Its 60-month checkup is scheduled to cost more than the first car I bought. Way more. Add to that the fact that it needs new rear brakes, and we are talking some serious money here.

When I scheduled the appointment, they offered me a loaner car, which I cheerfully accepted. I didn’t expect a Mercedes, a Lexus, or even a Saab, but I guess I was surprised to be given a soup can on wheels. Let’s call it a Klunker. I believe in calling a spade a spade.

It is small, which is not a problem. I’m pretty sure that if you tried real hard you could fit two of these Klunkers into my Reliable. Not that I’m about to do that, but I think if you were in a Mercedes dealership, these might be over in a side lot with a sign that says “Take One”.

While I was waiting for the loaner, I was thinking that I should have asked for something that had the electric seat warmers. Then I thought, it’s only for a day or two, and it really won’t matter. Mistake.

Not only does this car not have seat warmers, it doesn’t have automatic door locks. I believe the last time I had to reach around the driver’s seat to manually unlock a rear door, Jimmy Carter was running for President. This doesn’t sound like a heinous burden, but my back has been acting up, and I had errands to run, and this business of back and forth with unlocking and locking doors was not helping.

The Klunker has an FM-radio, and the wipers work. When the rear window was fogging up, I searched in vain for a rear-window defogger. Yeah, right. I’m lucky I’ve got a rear window, let alone a defogger.

On my way home the first day there were such loud rattling sounds that I considered pulling over, getting out, and looking under the car for some extra tin cans that might have been coming loose. I was too cold, and decided to tough it out.

I mean, just to tell you how cheap this car is, the manufacturer’s emblem on the trunk lid is made of Legos. Well, not the real-deal Legos—more like the ones you would find in the dollar bins at Target. Cheap. Because when I say “Soup Can on Wheels”, I’m not talking Progresso soup. I’m talking store-brand, generic, plain-label soup. In a thin tin can.

So I’m into my fifth day with this car (3-day weekend at the dealership) and I’m still unaccustomed to coming home and having to lean in, reach around, and yank the lock to open the back door and take my things into the house.

But I will say this: that heater works like a dream. Maybe they can keep the Reliable a few more days—just till this cold snap ends.

Refudiate THAT, My Friends!

2010-11-29T05:00:00.003-06:00

It’s official, and you may have already heard the news: the New Oxford American Dictionary has named ‘refudiate’ its 2010 Word of the Year. That sound you hear is coming from linguists who’ve lain peacefully at rest for millennia, but are now spinning in their graves.

The new word originated last summer when Sarah Palin used it on Twitter. She bollixed up ‘refute’ and ‘repudiate’ and out came ‘refudiate’.

Much as I hate to say it, I kind of like the word. I can’t disagree with the practicality of it—it serves a useful purpose, and while my gut reaction is to revolt because of my political reaction to Sarah, I’m going out on a limb to defend the creation of something that actually makes sense to me.

The Oxford people point out that it suggests a general ‘rejection’, where neither ‘refute’ nor ‘repudiate’ were suitable. Of course, they don’t mention the fact that she could have just said ‘reject’.

Sarah’s original tweet was a message urging Muslims to ______ the planned building of a mosque on a site in New York near Ground Zero. ‘Reject’ would have worked just fine, but ‘refudiate’ just seemed to fall onto the page.

I’m not inclined to liken Ms. Palin to Shakespeare, as she herself did, pointing out that Shakespeare coined new words all the time. But, as Seth Meyers pointed out on SNL’s Weekend Update the other night, Shakespeare came up with new words deliberately, and Palin’s new creation was what he called a word ‘fender-bender’.

Still, when the Oxford people want to elevate the status of a new word such as this one, who am I to judquestion? Tweet.

Look What I Found!

2010-11-26T05:00:00.002-06:00

I may not clean house as often as I used to—hey, stop laughing—at least I get to it eventually! But anyway, when I clean, I REALLY clean. Baseboards, window sills, door frames, all the little nooks and crannies of every piece of furniture in the house. Except for the fact that no matter how hard I try, I always seem to realize at the end (just after all the cleaning rags have gone into the washing machine, and the cleaning products are put away) that I’ve forgotten one thing. And it’s never the same thing, so even though I think I’m double-checking myself, I still find later that I missed one table or one shelf, or some little spot. It’s frustrating, but I get over it.

So the other day, as I was diligently polishing the dresser in the guest room, I happened to open a drawer that appeared to be a little off-kilter. I was greeted by happiness, lollipops, rainbows and sunshine! It was so wonderful and so unexpected that I took a picture of it to share it with you.

Now you know that I haven’t cleaned that room since our older son was here the last week of October. My excuse is that awful cold I had for a couple of weeks that also kept me from going to the gym. Yeah, that and a basic and generalized aversion to cleaning. But back to the important stuff, it was a grand reminder of having Jason and Kaitlyn here with us for a visit. I’m somewhat surprised that they still haven’t noticed that she’s missing so many outfits, but life with a 2 ½ year-old is like that…

So I’m going to box them up and send them off to Boston, and dry my tears. I’ll just look at the photos we took when she was here. We covered the zoo, the Museum of Transportation, the pumpkin farm and more. And she still had time to visit all the rest of her St. Louis fan club, which is sizeable.

Maybe I’ll go open some more drawers. I may find Jimmy Hoffa or the Hope Diamond. Maybe Jimmy Hoffa wearing the Hope Diamond. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie…

Dates to Celebrate, Consecrate and Commemorate

2010-11-24T05:00:00.005-06:00

Now that we’ve covered astrological signs, what about certain dates of birth? I get a daily e-mail from Garrison Keillor (no, we’re not such good friends) that comes under the guise of “Writer’s Almanac”. It’s really cool. (Yes, remember, I long ago admitted to being the world’s biggest nerd.) It starts out with a poem for the day, then goes on to cite important events that happened on the current date, often the dates of birth of famous people, usually literary people.

Garrison Keillor

This fascinates me, and I don’t know why. Ever since I was a little kid, and you’d find the special feature on the comics page in the newspaper every day (remember newspapers?) of “Today’s Birthdays”, I liked seeing the famous names, and guessing how old they were. “Ginger Rogers—Mom, guess how old!” or “President Nixon, really, come on—guess!” Yeah, that’s how cool I was, and I haven’t gotten over it, either.

So now I get a daily dose from the Writer’s Almanac of special birthdays and special events. What especially impresses me, though, is the aggregation of some amazing people on the same date. I’ve been jotting some of them down, because it just seems to me to be pretty remarkable that a cluster of highly renowned folks were born on the same day. Granted, this is usually many years apart, but still, I am kind of fascinated by it.

In July there was an especially strong run of these coincident dates. Look at this:

On July 3, Tom Stoppard (1937), Dave Barry (1947), and Franz Kafka (1883) all shared this birthday. This does not even include my old friend Jerry J. (1950). Now Stoppard, Barry, and Kafka wrote in entirely different genres, one could even say they were in different worlds, but I still think it’s remarkable that they all were born on the third of July.

Dave Barry

Then on the fourth, Thoreau moved into Walden Cabin (1845), Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass (1855), and Nathaniel Hawthorne was born (1804). Not to mention the signing of the Declaration of Independence. (I asked you not to mention that.)

As if that weren’t enough, look at the significance of the 26th of July: George Bernard Shaw (1856), Aldous Huxley (1894), and Carl Jung (1875) were all born on that day. Also, my daughter’s childhood friend Jason R. (1976). How much fame does one day get? This is a veritable plethora of big-brained people who achieved some level of either greatness or notoriety or at least fame, all born on the same day. Hey, even Jason’s a big-time surgeon now.

Carl Jung

So does it all mean anything? I looked again at the info for my very own birthday, June 14. Growing up, whereas just about every other day in the year had the birthday of someone admirable or exciting (or both) in the comics section feature, I remember every year being disappointed to find just boring old fat and dumpy Burl Ives. Sorry, but I never liked the guy, and came to resent him for sharing my birthday. Granted, he had it first (1909!—that’s waaaaay first!) but still, it irked me.

The dreaded Burl Ives....

Now along comes the Writer’s Almanac, and I learn that my birthday is also shared with Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811), and John Bartlett, who started the whole “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” project (1820). Now that’s better. I’m not feeling badly at all about sharing with such literary icons.

And with the advent of Google, I have learned that Boy George, Che Guevara and Donald Trump were all born on the fourteenth of June, Flag Day, just as I was. Maybe I was better off not knowing.

Boy George

Gemini Meets Scorpio

2010-11-22T05:00:00.002-06:00

I’m not at all knowledgeable about astrological signs. I know people who are, and I think it’s kind of cool, but I never learned much about it. I’m a Gemini, and I do think that accounts for my split personality, but then again, so do I.

I used to work with a woman named Linda, who would always ask when someone’s birthday was, then she’d say, “Oh, you’re a Sagittarius!” or whatever sign was correct. Then she’d ask about the boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/whatever, and pronounce her assessment of whether the relationship had a chance at happiness or was doomed to go up in smoke. She knew this stuff cold, too. “Oh, no, he’s going to be selfish and isolating,” or “You don’t want to trust her with your kids or money—they’re (whatever the sign was) so irresponsible!” I don’t know how she knew this, but she was pretty sure that my hub, [the Center of the Universe, when he was still ‘the boyfriend’] and I would work out great. “Gemini and Scorpio—that’s a very strong combination,” she asserted.

Now, however, I find Linda was either learning from a different playbook, or fifteen years has changed the conventional wisdom. And, since fifteen years is nothing in the big scheme of things, I seriously doubt it’s the latter. Anyway, if you Google ‘Gemini and Scorpio compatibility’, you will find this view of things:

A Gemini and a Scorpio are like two ends of the same pole. They are totally opposite to one another in almost all the aspects of their personality, making this zodiac match a difficult one. The Scorpion is a highly emotional individual, who always forges deep, meaningful relationships. A Gemini, on the other hand, hardly becomes attached to people and most of his love relationships tend to be superficial ones. The frivolousness of a Gemini will not go down too well with a Scorpio and he is most likely to find the former as too childish, immature and irresponsible.

Now, frankly, not to give out too much personal information, but that particular description of the Scorpio couldn’t be further from the truth about CoTU. It describes me far better than it does him. In fact, a case could be made that they got us totally reversed, or at least partially so. So was Linda just nudging me along, hoping we’d self-destruct, or did she have special psychic insights?

This is a little like the Chinese restaurant placemat information on birth years… If you were born in the Year of the Rat, can you successfully marry someone born in the Year of the Monkey? Does it all depend upon the phase of the moon? Which system takes precedence? Do the Chinese birth years override the astrological signs, or is it the other way around?

Pig, rat, snake, monkey, ox—not too much to aspire to, if stereotypes hold. What does that leave?—rabbit, rooster, horse, dog, dragon, tiger… Hmmm… Maybe I was better off trying to grasp the signs of the zodiac. Aries, Taurus, Cancer, Libra—they just sound less judge-y…

So for all you readers out there who are into on-line dating, do any of these things become factors for you? Does anyone really take these things seriously when you meet someone you might want to date, or is the old ‘personal chemistry’ still the gold standard when it comes to choosing a significant other?

In either case, despite what they say online, this particular Gemini and CoTU, my Scorpio hubster, are doing just fine. So maybe Linda knew better than the websites, in the final analysis.

Perhaps the labels and the generalizations are just another way we try to cubbyhole each other. I guess it’s still best not to try to put a monkey and a rat in a Taurus. Somebody’s gonna get hurt. Especially if the monkey’s driving.

Ding-Dong, Get Your Wallet Out

2010-11-19T05:00:00.002-06:00

Remember that conversation we had the other day about how we hate it when our kids have to go out and sell stuff for their schools, or their sports teams, or their scout troops? Wait, that wasn’t here—someone else blogged about how they hate it when their coworkers turn their cubicles into a sales booth for those kid-driven products. I believe she might have also mentioned the tiny Avon/Mary Kay/Scented-Candles-I-Don’t-Really-Want emporia that lurk in what should be a larger workplace dedicated to the people who give you your paycheck.

Actually, that blogger was Stephanie Faris who writes a great blog called “Steph in the City”. As usual, she was spot-on in her analysis of the situation.

I was sufficiently moved by her post that I commented as follows:

Yeah, this stuff is way out of control. It's bad enough that I paid a neighbor kid $17 for a bag of caramel popcorn for his boy scout troop (I am not kidding), but that's because I believe in supporting the kids who are willing to ring the doorbells on our block and ask. In the workplace?-- I always hated it. It seems to me to be totally wrong. When I had the authority, I would tell people they could leave their brochures and sign-up sheets in the break room, but not approach people personally on work time.... Didn't always work, but I sure tried...

But I’m out of the workplace now, and subject only to the ringing of the doorbell with the occasional adorable kid from the neighborhood trying to peddle gift wrap, cheese and sausage packages, popcorn, magazine subscriptions and the like.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) is a real soft touch. He plays tough, but the fact is, he will rarely pass kids running a lemonade stand without stopping to buy a cup. If he absolutely can’t stop, then he talks about how badly he feels about letting them down for the next twenty minutes in the car.

And any time a kid rings the bell with a fundraiser, we always step up and find something to purchase.

So it’s as if there’s a giant red neon arrow over our front door that flashes the word “SUCKERS” when school fundraising season comes around.

About a month ago a neighbor boy came to the door, and CoTU answered. He was out on the porch for kind of a long time. When he came back, he said, “I hope you like caramel corn.” (Side note: After 15 years, shouldn’t he know whether I like caramel corn?) But anyway, when I asked why, he told me he had just spent $17 on a bag of caramel corn for this kid’s scout troop.

“Seventeen dollars???” I asked, incredulous. “The bag better be the size of Montana for that kind of money…. And aren’t we both trying to lose weight?”

“Well, you know how it is,” he said. “These kids are forced to raise money—how can I say no?”

Of course, I’m secretly glad that this is one of his characteristics—helping the kids out. I just wish it didn’t come laden with so many calories.

So the other day the doorbell rings again. Cynic that I am, I look out the window first to make sure it’s not the toothless boys from Deliverance trying to sell us firewood. We are in the firewood season, after all. I didn’t see a truck, and anyway CoTU was already opening the door.

Aha, the young lad with his bag-o-calories. Not the size of Montana, not the size of Iowa, not even the size of Rhode Island. It would easily fit into my gym bag. With the clothes, shoes and towel already in it. And the water bottle. And headphones. Anyway…

So I see CoTU bringing the bag into the kitchen, and he’s laughing. I see the bag, and I hear his laughter, and I say, “Next time, maybe we just shouldn’t open the door.”

Then he turns the bag around and shows me what’s cracking him up.

“Great,” I admit. “The little manipulator knows his craft—we are putty in his tiny little hands.”

Arf!

2010-11-17T05:00:00.002-06:00

This morning my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I were clueing each other in on our respective schedules for the day. I had a dental appointment, which means I was picking up our dear friend Ruth, because we always go to the dentist together. Ruth doesn’t drive, we go to the same dentist, and I love Ruth dearly, so it’s a great excuse to see each other and catch up on our respective families and lives.

Did I mention that Ruth has a birthday in a few weeks? No? Okay, she’s turning 98 in a couple of weeks. A-mazing. She has a better memory than I do, and it doesn’t hurt that she looks about 75. No joke. Oh yes, and she just signed another two-year lease on her apartment. She lives independently. She is my hero and my personal role model. If I’m doing as well at 78 as she is at 98, I’ll be quite satisfied.

So, one more little detail. Ruth’s daughter and I were best friends in our youth, and in the early ‘70s we married brothers. This means that Ruth’s grandsons and my kids are first cousins. Diagram it, it’s true. So Ruth is family because we love her, but we also have a familial claim on her.

I lied—here’s one last bit of trivia… You could not say the name “Ruth B.” in front of my dad without him stopping you and interjecting, “She’s such a doll!” Okay, I’m done. I’m just saying….

So I was going to the dentist, then to take Ruth on whatever errands she needed to do, then to lunch. I always look forward to our outings.

CoTU was planning to drop off some items at his parents’ place, pick up some 9-volt batteries, and make a perfunctory stop at Home Depot. If he’s not there every couple of days, they call us to make sure he’s all right. Kidding. A little.

In the middle of his rundown, I subconsciously reached up to adjust my necklace. CoTU stopped abruptly, and said, “What???”

I said, “Nothing, I’m listening—go on.”

“No,” he said, “are you trying to show me your necklace? Was I supposed to notice something?”

I shook my head. “Honestly, I was innocently fiddling with it to make sure it was centered. What would you think you were supposed to notice?”

“Well,” he ventured, “I don’t remember seeing that before. I thought maybe it was new.”

“Hmmm. This is the necklace I took with us to Abby’s wedding in Chicago a few weeks ago. I wore it for three solid days. I wore it on our tenth anniversary a few weeks ago. I wore it when we went out for dinner last week. I’ve had it since before I met you. It’s probably the piece of jewelry I wear most often, sweetheart.”

He fidgeted and shuffled and looked at his watch. “You know,” he said, “it’s not even nine o’clock and I’m already in trouble.”

“Look at the bright side,” I reasoned. “At least we weren’t up at six—you probably saved yourself a good three hours in the doghouse.”

But I tossed him a Milk-Bone before I left.

National Day of Listening

2010-11-15T05:00:00.004-06:00

So for once I seem to have heard about a National Day of Something before it actually happened. You may recall that earlier this year I was late to the party when it came to National Coffee Day and National Punctuation Day. I still haven’t recovered from those shocking realizations. And since I didn’t r.s.v.p., I probably won’t be invited next year, either! So you can imagine how delighted I am to have heard of the National Day of Listening in time to participate!

Yes, the National Day of Listening will be Friday, November 26th. That’s the day after Thanksgiving, so if you’re not out shopping, snapping up the bargains you’re seeking for your holiday celebrations, consider taking part. Husbands, typically handicapped in the realm of listening, need not apply.

This project falls under the umbrella of the StoryCorps, whose vignettes you may have heard on NPR. They are usually brief interviews conducted by one family member of another, or the two participants may be friends, neighbors or co-workers. I’ve heard many of them broadcast over the years, and am always affected by them. Some are poignant and touch my heart. Some amaze me with their insights and perspectives. I’ve never turned the radio off in the middle of one.

It may seem obvious, but I mostly end up wishing I could interview one of my parents, or grandparents. Maybe my lovely Aunt Sadie. Someone I’ve lost, and wish I knew more about. Someone who meant the world to me, whose secrets might bring me a clearer understanding of who they were, and what they wanted for me. Or what they would think of how I turned out, how wonderfully my kids turned out, and how fabulous my grandkids are.

I’d like to have that time machine, but I know it is not possible. What is possible, though, is taping interviews with my kids (we’ll be in D.C. with the newlyweds) to see what’s in their hearts, that they might not expose in our day-to-day interactions. And maybe we’ll disclose something of ourselves in the process. I envision all of us getting to know each other in a slightly new way. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea? If they have questions for us, and I imagine they can come up with plenty—after all they are both former newspaper reporters—perhaps one day they won’t have the same regrets I have. Sure, they’ll have some regrets—who doesn’t? But at least they’ll be different, and possibly less substantial.

Interviews done for this project can be uploaded to the “Wall of Listening” at the StoryCorps website www.nationaldayoflistening.org. You can also upload them to Facebook, or post them on your own site to share with your loved ones.

So on November 26th, think about taking out a tape recorder, and asking some questions of someone important to you. And keep it nice—this post-Thanksgiving experience should be about positive things, and possibly difficult things, but not anything likely to cause hurt feelings, or a rift between people. I’m just saying… And then think about uploading that interview (or those interviews) to the Wall of Listening. You may touch hearts all over the world.

By listening closely to one another, we can help illuminate the true character of this nation reminding us all just how precious each day can be and how great it is to be alive.

Dave Isay
Founder & President, StoryCorps

It's a Car

2010-11-10T05:00:00.002-06:00

I know a lot of people anthropomorphize their vehicles, give them names, pat them on the fender at the end of a trip and generally consider them to be members of the family. But those people (for the most part—certain exceptions apply, of course) know that that big hunk of steel and plastic is not, in fact, human. They know that a car is a car, a pet is a pet, and a teenager is a nightmare. But that’s not important right now.

My daughter and son-in-law bought a Hyundai Vera Cruz last year. They’re quite happy with it, and treat it like a car. Well, like an SUV. After all, when you need room for two child car seats, what can you do?

Anyhoo, Hyundai is diligent, or possibly even aggressive about their customer satisfaction. They mail out questionnaires and surveys, and go to serious lengths to understand the owner’s relationship with the vehicle. It seems to me that this borders on the kinky.

Following are direct quotes, and honestly, I swear I am not making this up—from a survey they received from Hyundai:

1. If your Hyundai was a person, which of the following traits would describe it? Environmentally-friendly, passionate, peaceful (yeah, it meditates whenever left alone in the garage), tough, outdoorsy (no, I see the car more as a family-room kind of accessory), charming, upper-class, successful, intelligent, reliable, up-to-date, imaginative (just yesterday it suggested a more scenic route on the way home from work), spirited, daring (yup, cut somebody off in traffic just for the sheer sport of it), cheerful, wholesome, honest (wouldn’t keep the change that fell out of my pants pocket), down-to-earth (um, what, you know a car that’s hoity-toity?)

2. Which of the following statements are true of you?

I believe the greater good stems from truth and wisdom.

I strive to bring the world closer together.

Technology and electronic products are not simplifying my life.

I usually do a lot of research before I purchase a product.

Seriously? I bought one of your cars—I’m not applying for a job in the CIA and I’m not marrying your daughter. If I get approved for financing and the check clears—we’re done here. Nice knowing you, see you when my warranty expires. End of story—my views of truth and wisdom should be between me and my significant other. Car maker? --not so much.

When my 90-year old friend bought an Isuzu sedan and named it “Suzy”, I thought it was endearing. But nobody put her through an extended psychoanalytic assessment to determine her mental status.

Okay, hers was white, not red. Sue me...

Yikes—back off, Hyundai. You’re not taking over the world one driver at a time. Or then again, if you are, get your info from that guy across the street. He’s pin-striping his Sonata right now. Wonder what that means….

If the Name Fits...

2010-11-08T05:00:00.001-06:00

Gee, it’s been ages since we talked about people whose names fit their occupations. Must be time to update our list.

In the past we had lots of doctors like:

Dr. Philpott, the urologist. Wait, I must remind you that these are REAL examples of REAL people, and not fictitious, fictionalized figments of my imagination.

So, where was I? Oh yes, Dr. Wink, the optometrist. Dr. Bonebrake, the orthopedic surgeon.

But in the interim I’ve encountered the following professionals:

During the whole BP mess in the Gulf, did anyone else find it interesting that their spokesman was a guy named “Kent Wells”? You know, like on “Car Talk”, where their Chicken Soup Provisioner (sic) is Kent Hoyt (you have to say it out loud)—this guy Kent Wells. Obviously.

I saw an interview with a pilot named Ross Aimer. I should hope so.

I’ve actually met a local ophthalmologist named Dr. Blinder, and yes, he does pronounce it ‘blind-er’.

Then my October issue of Cooking Light quotes (on page 200) a dietician named Kathy Kitchens Downie. Maybe in her spare time she consults on fabric softeners. I’m just saying…

This reminds me of the ultimate in occupationally-linked names, the eponymous Sally Ride, first U.S. woman in space. The astronaut who gave young girls hope and made it cool to like science!

Ride, Sally, Ride!

Halloween Coincidence? Happiness and Regret...

2010-11-05T05:00:00.003-05:00

Halloween is over, but the candy lingers on. Yeah, only because I bought the stuff that wouldn’t tempt me in a million years. You know, Baby Ruth, Butterfingers—the stuff with nuts that I would rather starve than eat. Believe me, if there were a Hershey Bar in the house, I’d have sticky, gooey, tell-tale chocolate stains on my fingers.

Anyhoo, here are a couple of photos of what our grandchildren did on Halloween, and you should know that these costumes were conceived independently, and it’s purely coincidence that the three and a half-year old in Sacramento was a road, while his two and a half-year old cousin in Boston was Lightning McQueen! As for the 4-month old, well, he’s little more than a prop for his dad, and if you’ve seen the movie “The Hangover”, you’ll recognize Alan and Carlos!

Kaitlyn (a.k.a. Lightning McQueen) and her mom!

Zachary as the happiest road ever!

Baby Sam (a.k.a. The Tank) with his daddy!

I hope your Halloween was equally sweet and memorable! But I should have bought Hershey Bars...

Halloween Scene

2010-10-31T12:13:00.000-05:00

Ah yes, Halloween weekend is here at last! Why do adults like me, who do not put on a costume, and do not attend fun and funky parties to commemorate the 31st of October, look forward to this day so much? Memories, would be my guess.

That's me in the front as a witch (age 5).
I'd like to think I grew into the role.
Behind me are my OLDER sister and brother.
She's a gypsy; he may be a pirate... He's been cured, however.

I’m old enough to remember that, although I had very protective parents who worried nearly to the point of phobia about all kinds of ills and harms that would never come to pass, Halloween was a time of real freedom. I could put my costume on, run up and down the street for hours on end, meet up with friends and neighbors, trade a yummy Hershey bar for a yucky Butterfingers (thank you Stevie Parks) and generally act like a so-called wild Indian. (No offense was ever meant to the Native Americans; it was just a politically-incorrect term, before we coined the term ‘politically-incorrect’, born of the ubiquitous Hollywood westerns of the day.)

When our parents flashed the porch lights off and on, that was our signal to come home. We’d arrive sweaty and dirt-streaked with a pillowcase full of loot. My sister, brother and I would unload our booty and the swapping would begin in earnest. I was the least likely to eat anything that contained nuts, being more of a chocolate purist. Still am. Give me simple, unadulterated chocolate and nobody gets hurt. Snickers? Mr. Goodbar? --no thanks. You can even have my Hershey bars that have been defiled by the inclusion of almonds. Ick.

There was always plenty of candy to last for a week or more, and that’s including whatever graft and corruption enabled our parents to skim their share after we went to sleep. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They were underwriting our costumes, room and board, etc., after all.

So ever since I’ve had kids of my own, I’ve done a massive job of decorating with witches, pumpkins, goblins and monsters, eager to make the holiday as much fun for them as I remembered it from my youth. The kids are married and scattered across the country, so it’s just the Center of the Universe here with me, but I still decorate at full-tilt. Bring on the Indian corn, the mini-pumpkins and the gourds! Hang those witches, drape the spider webs, and mount that wreath on the front door—it’s almost Halloween, and the spirits are gathering for some serious trick-or-treating!

I’m turning on the porch lights, and awaiting the ringing of the doorbell!

I've Been Released By the Kidnappers! (You're not buying that, are you?)

2010-10-27T05:00:00.043-05:00

I know, I know, first I post a video about shame and humiliation, then I fall off the side of the earth for two weeks! What’s up with that? Well, would you believe I was kidnapped by the Standards and Practices Police for YouTube? No? Yeah, because their acronym would be SAPPY, and that’s just too cute for words. Bordering on the precious, isn’t it?

So the truth is, I was hijacked by the arrival of our son (from Boston) and his 2 1/2 year-old, who spent a lovely week with us! We were blessed with wonderful weather, so we covered some of the town’s high spots together: the local pumpkin farm (same one we took our kids to before they invented grandchildren), the world-famous St. Louis Zoo, and the amazing Museum of Transportation. Photos galore, all right here for your dining and dancing pleasure!

Just as that visit was drawing to a close, we skipped town and drove up to Chicago for a fabulous wedding! Don’t you worry—I have photos of that, too, so you don’t have to miss a moment of my life from the past couple of weeks. I didn’t mean to go AWOL on you—it just sort of worked out that way.

Who doesn't love a Magna-Doodle?

Riding the Zoo Train! Chugga-choo-choo!

Petting the goats with Aunt Jaime!

"I thought I was the pumpkin!"

This is what 'happy' looks like!

What a great day we had!

Walking with Daddy at the Museum of Transportation.

Cousin, Me, Cousin, Cousin, Cousin!
Margaret, Leah, Lee, Carol, Edye!
I'm loving this group-- thanks for a great time!

2010-10-13T05:00:00.002-05:00

Okay, Folks, it's my first foray into Video Blogging, and I've capitalized that just to reinforce the notion that I am capitalizing on my husband's videography skills!

Anyway, here's a brief story of love gone wrong. No, that's wrong. It's a story of shame and humiliation, and who doesn't love that? Aw, just click 'Play' and see whether you can relate to the miserable state of yours truly...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PS-iDR9CCNs

Well-- I'm totally bummed that the whole 'embed' process failed me, due to sizing conflicts, so use the link, and view the little video-- it's about 3 minutes long. I hope you like it, and my undying gratitude to the producer and director, the Center of the Universe!

More Name Game

2010-10-08T05:00:00.001-05:00

Another one for the books…

Remember the post about all the people whose names fit their occupations? People like Dr. Philpott, the urologist, and Dr. Wink, the optometrist, and Dr. Bonebrake, the orthopedic surgeon? Yeah, there were lots more, and YOU—my fabulous readers wrote in with lots of examples from your own experience.

Well, here’s another fine example. You may not be able to read the tiny print that tells you the name of this dentist, but perhaps you’ve seen the ad yourself. I tore this out of a magazine and saved it to share with you.

Her name? Dr. Joyce Fang. I kid you not. I mean, how bizarre is that—who ever heard of a dentist named Joyce?

Thermostat Wars

2010-10-06T05:00:00.001-05:00

Well, it’s furnace season already, and the gender wars are starting up again in full force. He wants the house cold enough to hang meat in, and I want to survive without seeing my breath in the living room.

Readers, grab your thermostats!

I'm like a reptile, cold all the time once the thermometer drops below 70 degrees. My internal thermostat doesn’t work very well, so I have a narrow temperature range in which I’m actually, well, comfortable. A few degrees lower and I’m reaching for socks and a sweater, and a few degrees higher and I’m flushed and fanning myself. It’s crazy.

Of course I share living quarters with a man whose thermogenic (yes, I made that up) needs are far different from mine. Just don’t tell my husband. Kidding. Of course, I’m talking about the hubster, the Center of the Universe (CoTU.)

He’s actually far more normal than I am in this regard, but ONLY in this regard.

The temp is always a problem for me; I can't seem to muster up any metabolic function at all... It's sad, really. And the CoTU doesn't get it-- he's never cold. How do couples like us end up together? Different religions are a piece of cake compared to this issue. Multiple blankets on my side of the bed, none on his. If I understand anything at all from the weather reports I’ve watched over the years, I think that where the warm front meets the cold front right in the middle of our bed, it should actually be snowing...

Remember in January when I had my deviated septum fixed? Well, before the surgery, the nurses kept offering to put warm blankets on me. I accepted each and every time, and by the time they took me into the operating room I was under so many layers that the surgeon had to bill extra time to unearth me. (Try the veal—tip your servers, I’ll be here all week.)

Today I was at the dermatologist’s office, which I decided I like better than all other doctor’s visits because it’s the only place where they don’t make you get on the freaking scale just because you came in for a check-up. Anyway, as the doctor’s assistant showed me into the exam room, she asked me if I needed anything. “A parka would be nice,” I said. She agreed that the office is pretty darn cold, but I noticed that she was in short sleeves. Bummer. I’m beginning to think it’s just me…

The other thing about furnace weather is that I’m drinking a lot more coffee. I’m not necessarily thirsty, I just use it to elevate my body temperature. It’s also very effective at keeping my hands warm. Of course with coffee beans selling at $9-$10/pound, this is going to be an expensive season. At least in the hot weather, I’m just drinking tons of cold water. Cost: pretty much $0.00/pound. We will either have to adjust the budget, or I’ll have to make it up somehow. Maybe I’ll take in ironing—that generates a pleasant heat…

So we don’t have a dog to throw on our laps for warmth, (remember the “Three-Dog Night”?) but we’ve got each other. CoTU generates enough heat to warm the tip of my nose and take the blue out of my fingernails. I’m pretty good at layering up the socks and the sweaters, and trying not to be a wimp about the cold. Now if I could just get him to hang that side of beef somewhere else…

National Punctuation Day's Over, Too! Whaaaa!

2010-10-04T05:00:00.003-05:00

Great, just great. I’m barely getting over the realization that I totally missed National Coffee Day, and now I find out that there was a National Punctuation Day on September 24th. How can I be so out of touch??

It seems that this was the seventh annual National Punctuation Day, so I can’t just blame it on having had a busy week. I guess it’s been a hectic decade for me… What else could explain it?

I’ve posted before about how much grammar and word usage matter to me, and just recently a Washington Post column by Eugene Weingarten, lamenting “The Death of the English Language” introduced me to another kindred spirit. I’m still mourning the loss of retired NBC newsman Edwin Newman, who passed away in August.

Newman was a champion of the proper use of English dating way back to my coming of age, and always did so with humor and aplomb. He wrote whole books about it, books which I still possess (from the early ‘70s) titled “Strictly Speaking: Will America Be the Death of English?” and “A Civil Tongue”.

Anyway, it seems that a guy named Jeff Rubin (no relation), a veteran print journalist who reads The San Francisco Chronicle every morning with a red Sharpie in hand, founded National Punctuation Day.

People ask him all the time, "Who cares?" because from the plethora of mispunctuated signs out there, it sometimes seems as if nobody does. But Rubin gets e-mails, "hundreds and hundreds of e-mails," he says, "from people who do care: teachers, attorneys, journalists, parents." Now he’ll have to add, “Bloggers like the nutcase Leah Rubin, who originally wanted to name her blog ‘The Word Nerd’”.

And, according to an interview Jeff Rubin gave NPR…

Defending punctuation isn't glamorous work, but Rubin says he "soldiers on." Here are his greatest punctuation pet peeves:

1. People who misuse the apostrophe, Part 1: The rule about apostrophes is so simple: If it's plural there's no apostrophe. How hard is that? Other than the period, which tells people to STOP, this is the easiest punctuation mark. Will the "Johnson's" and "Smith's" of the world explain to me why this rule is so difficult to understand?

2. People who misuse the apostrophe, Part 2: What's the deal with "it's" and "its"? "It's" is a contraction, meaning "it is." "Its" is possessive. If people read their sentences by substituting "it is" for "it's" — "it is condition was serious" — it wouldn't make sense. That means "it's" is wrong.

3. People who make up their own punctuation style: At a business meeting the other day a guy who specializes in risk assessments said he likes to put commas and periods outside closing quotation marks. I told him that's not the recognized style of any of the major stylebooks in the United States. He told me he felt it was a "choice," not an absolute rule. That's like saying the Ten Commandments are the Ten Suggestions.

4. People who put commas where they don't belong: There are several correct ways to use a comma; an incorrect way is to add one just because it seems like the appropriate time. I know a writer who submits an occasional article for her company's newsletter. Her article always includes a misplaced comma. When I ask why the comma is where it is, I get this response: "Well, I hadn't used a comma in a while so I thought I should put one in." Where's the Maalox?

5. Their, there, and they're; your and you're: When did they stop teaching homophones in school?

Wait—if he says that now, how many people out there would object to the use of the word ‘homophones’? I’m just asking!

If you loved the very popular “Eats, Shoots and Leaves”, you should check out “Lapsing Into a Comma,” “Grammar Snobs Are Great Big Meanies,” and “Mortal Syntax.” They will keep you laughing while you lament the destruction of our mother tongue.

Anyway, I’m totally with him on all five of the pet peeves, and just today, en route to my niece’s wedding, I saw a new misuse to share with you. We encountered a pack of a dozen or so motorcyclists, all wearing jackets emblazoned across the back with “Sin City Deciples.” Shouldn’t some ONE of them have encountered the word “disciple” at some point in life??? I’m just saying…

I Missed National Coffee Day???

2010-10-01T05:00:00.003-05:00

So it turns out that Wednesday was National Coffee Day. Did I have to be the very last person on the planet to find this out?

It’s not as if I don’t drink my standard eleventy-three cups a day, yes, even in the heat of summer. I just love the stuff. Sue me.

It’s not even about the caffeine, because I’m strictly a decaf drinker, for a variety of reasons, most of which fall under the heading of “I’ll take boring topics for $600, Alex.” But the flavor of choice is hazelnut decaf, just in case you were going to send me a shipment for my birthday, which I believe you forgot, by the way.

Wow. I’m beginning to sound angry. I’m beginning to scare myself, and this is WITHOUT caffeine. Good thing I never touch the stuff, right?

So the only reason I even found out about National Coffee Day AT LAST, is that my small-h hero, Grammar Girl, Tweeted about the difference between “expresso” and “espresso”. In case you missed it, (bwah-hah-hah), “expresso” would be slang for “speedy”, and “espresso” is the coffee drink.

Now it’s possible that the whole reason I missed this non-event event Wednesday is that it was the birthday of three very important people: my stepson Jason (he had a great birthday), my stepdaughter Jaime (she had a great birthday) and my capital-H Personal Hero and Spiritual Guide, Gwen Ifill.

I haven’t heard from Gwen about her birthday, but she wasn’t on the Newshour that night, so let’s just hope it was a good time for Gwen, too. (She doesn’t write, she doesn’t call… go raise children…)

Anyhoo, I hope all you coffee lovers out there celebrated big time, and next year I’ll be on the alert for National Coffee Day. That way, when I go to bed the night before, and hang my IV bag of Mornin’ Joe on the pole, I can put a bow on it and feel festive.

P.S. I can't believe September's already over! Waaaah! Nothing says 'end-of-summer' more than this-- not Labor Day, not stashing the white shoes or purse, not back-to-school, not anything. Once you start writing 'October' on your checks, you know the whole season's gone... Ah, well... I'm just saying... Bring on the Halloween candy!

Put It All Together, and It Spells--- Huh?

2010-09-27T05:00:00.001-05:00

So I hear that United Airlines and Continental Airlines are merging. The new name of the resulting company will be… drum roll, please------- United Airlines. Wow, how original. In mergers, don’t they usually form some combination of the names of the two elements making up the new entity? And aren’t the people at Continental entitled to some part of the name in the new company?

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but when I see those two names together, I can’t help but think, “How about InContinent Airlines?” I guess you could use “UnContinent”, but with them charging for everything but the use of the toilets these days, you could really send a message with InContinent, couldn’t you?

Hey, I’m only asking!

What? What'd I do?

Shawn Everyman, Part II

2010-09-24T05:00:00.010-05:00

We return you now to the story of Shawn, the Prince of Pain, the Amazing Personal Trainer…

And another thing about Shawn, and this actually differentiates him from Satan: he has good manners. No, he has exceptional manners. Shawn introduces everyone who walks in the door to whomever he’s working with. Unheard of. Of course, five minutes later I didn’t always remember the names of the people he introduced me to, but I attributed that to the fact that I was trying to focus on ~~not passing out~~ performing all my ~~torture~~ exercises correctly.

The other trainers, Brian and Lisa, are equally well-mannered, and since they are Shawn’s siblings, I guess their parents should be getting a gold medal for Raising Polite Children. If it were an Olympic event, I think we could safely predict the outcome. I’m just saying…

Anyhoo, one day I was in there, gasping my last breath working with Shawn when in walked Linda. Shawn introduced us as she headed over to the treadmill. Then we realized that the gym was occupied by Shawn, Lisa, Leah, Lila, Laura, Lori, Lucy, Linda, Lindsey and Lainey. Okay, maybe I made a couple of those up, but there were truly five of us there! So I asked Shawn if he was scheduling us alphabetically by first name. I believe I might have also asked him, “What the L, man?” Groan…

Not Shawn, not me. Just a couple of actors, doing a re-enactment. Uh-huh.

Shawn loves his family and speaks of them with great love and affection. He planted a sizeable garden this year, and he generously shared the harvest with his clients. Tomatoes, cucumbers, cilantro-- an impressive feat, and a delicious crop! Part of his reason for the garden was to share the experience with his pre-school age daughter. How cool is that?

Shawn is a dedicated recycler. I mean dedicated. His wife thinks maybe too dedicated, but you be the judge.

Shawn told me the story of their neighbors, foreign nationals who often traveled home for weeks at a time. When they were gone, Shawn and his wife would water their lawn, hold their mail and generally keep an eye on things.

One night Shawn’s wife got a call from the neighbors, saying that they had returned home. They were coming over for their mail. Only one problem: she couldn’t find it.

“Shawn! Where’s the bag of mail for the Smiths?”

“I don’t know, Babe—where’d you put it?” he answered.

“It was in the laundry room in a Trader Joe’s bag,” she told him. A cold chill swept across his brow, even though beads of sweat were popping out everywhere else.

“Uh… I uh… um… maybe I recycled it? It sure looked like recycling…”

Only a really big man can admit that big a mistake.

The neighbors forgave him.

His wife is thinking about it.

The Prince of Fitness

2010-09-22T05:00:00.001-05:00

Shawn. Five letters, starts with S, ends with N, the only vowel it uses is A. Hmmm. What other name does that sound like? Could it be… SATAN?

Oh yes, the original Prince of Darkness has nothing on Shawn, the personal trainer and fitness guru who’s been ~~torturing~~ helping me on my journey to fitness.

Shawn, who works me till my eyes bleed, who makes my face the color of a beet, who makes me sweat like the proverbial dog.

Shawn has made me stronger, more flexible, and more aware of each and every muscle in my body than I ever expected to be. Curse you, Shawn!

--Naw, Shawn knows I’m kidding. One of the great things about working out with Shawn is his wonderful sense of humor. We laugh a lot as he pushes me beyond what I believe I can do.

If my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) weren’t likely to read this, I’d also tell you how good-looking Shawn is, but I’d better not go there. CoTU’s likely to start questioning the shorts and tops I wear to work out in. The fact that I’m probably older than Shawn’s mother would mitigate the situation somewhat, but still… let’s not discuss the fact that my neighbor (who also trains with Shawn) never fails to mention how “easy on the eyes” he is. (He, being Shawn, not CoTU.) (Sorry, CoTU.)

The reason I know Shawn has a sense of humor is because he is able to laugh ~~at with~~ at me when I’m trying to follow his instructions. He’ll show me a simple move, I’ll try to repeat it, and come nowhere close. I’m raising my hand weights when I’m supposed to be stepping, or I’m reaching when I should be bending. It’s pretty comical; at least it is if you’re the PRINCE OF PAIN.

I told him early on, this is why I’m not a dancer. Yeah. I think that was pretty obvious.

Years ago when my friend Gail and I took “Beginning Tap” with our adolescent offspring (my daughter, her son) I learned exactly why my mother never wasted her money on dancing lessons for me. I told Gail I should be in “Remedial Tap”; I was no ordinary ‘beginner’. There were a couple of tiny 6-year olds in the class who always picked up the new steps immediately, in sharp contrast to us. Gail pointed out to me on the way home one night that the little kids actually look like they’re dancing. “While we,” I observed, “look like we’re breaking down carburetors.”

So, “Just six more!” and “Ten more seconds!” and “You can do it!” from Shawn lead me to “Curse you, Shawn!”, “You’re killing me!”, and “No, I really CAN’T!” back at him. We use a lot of exclamation points over at his gym.

I mop my brow with a towel, take a swig of water from my BPA-free bottle, and try to get my heart rate under control.

Then it’s another round to complete the workout.

Shawn? --he never breaks a sweat. I guess that’s part of his charm. He's very muscular and the picture of fitness. But why is that red pitchfork standing in the corner?

Next post: One great story about Shawn, his family, and how very UN-Satanlike he is!

2010-09-20T05:00:00.043-05:00

As promised, Part III of Grandma Visits the Boys: Zach and Sam and their betrothed!

Yes, it was a rich and full visit to Zachramento last week. I got a nice span of time with each of the boys (Zachary, age 3 ½, and Sam, 2 ½ months.)

Zach and I went to the circus, the boys, their parents and I went to Train Town in Sonoma, and one lovely afternoon we went to the home of their good friends, A & A.

A & A would be enough of a gift, just for their friendship, intelligence, loyalty, big hearts and loving spirit. But in addition to all that, they have given birth to the lovely Miss J., who’s unofficially engaged to Zach, and the Cupcake herself, Miss M., who will just have to save herself for Sam. Since she helped Sam’s mommy give him a little bottle when we were there, we can officially plan for her to rob the cradle. Of course, it’s understood that this will only take place if Sam and Zach’s daddy insists upon staying married to my daughter, because Miss M. seems to think he is actually meant for her. Time will tell. (Does a 33-year difference in age seem like a lot to you? I mean, outside of Mississippi?)

Anyway, when we were invited over, Daddy A. suggested that Zach bring a swimsuit so the kids could play on the Slip ‘n’ Slide. We asked if he really thought it would be warm enough for the Slip ‘n’ Slide, and Daddy A. assured us that anything over 30° was appropriate for the Slip ‘n’ Slide.

Turned out to be in the 70s, so the kids wore their swim suits and Slipped and Slid to their hearts’ delight. They also rode scooters and kiddie coupes, ate apple wedges dipped in honey, and ran around like small children having a ball. Go figure. All except Sam, however, who stayed in my lap except when his ~~selfish~~ loving mommy demanded him back, and when Mommy A. wheedled us into giving her a turn to hold him.

While I was relaxing and reveling in the sight of such unselfconscious and innocent play, Mommy A. was making a wonderful dinner for everyone. We had brought salad and all the pre-measured ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Miss J. helped Rachel make the cookies, and when both daddies arrived we had a terrific dinner!

Hats off to Mommy A. for her wonderful brisket and roasted carrots, to Rachel for the salad and the cookies, and to all the vintners in Napa Valley who made the beverages so memorable!

Here are some photos of kids having fun!

Kids at play!

Miss M. a.k.a. The Cupcake

The lovely Miss J., my future granddaughter-in-law!

Is this fun, or what?

Driver Zach!

Happiness!

Color me Grandma! --and happy!

Zachary and Grandma Go to the Circus

2010-09-17T05:00:00.001-05:00

As promised, here’s the story of my trip to the Ringling Brothers-Barnum & Bailey Circus with my grandson.

So we’re driving to the Arco Arena, and from the backseat Zach says, “This is where the Kings play basketball.”

Holy moly, he’s three and a half. He’s never been to a basketball game (thank God—we have to save SOMETHING for when he’s a little older!), but because he’s so curious about everything he sees, he knows that the arena is where the Kings play. Zounds!

“That’s right,” I answer, always ready with a snappy comeback.

“There’s the highway. Highway 80,” he points out.

“Yep, that’s highway 80 all right,” I agree. I’ve got to work on my repartee. The kid’s killing me.

“Here’s where you turn for my school, Grandma!”

“I know, Zach—I love coming to your school!” I’m drowning here, someone throw me a rope.

Anyway, we pull into the parking lot, land a prime space (did you know I’m the Queen of Parking Karma?) and head for the big event. On the way to the entrance, we’re accosted by someone from PETA who tries to foist a flier onto me, regarding the treatment of elephants. I kind of gently shake my head and say (rather softly) “Please don’t—“ and she yells, “Oh, you don’t CARE about the animals???” I just kept walking, happy that Zach was more interested in the big train car on display than the nut job who, though she was trying to do something good, completely misapplied it in confronting someone with a little kid in tow…

So we get inside, and the whole interior of the arena is lined with showy, flashy, elaborate concession stands. They run the gamut from incredibly overpriced snacks (popcorn: one size, $7.00, and I swear I am not making this up) to incredibly overpriced souvenirs (nothing under $15.00, but most in the $20-$28 range, all of which looked like you could have bought them at Target for about $6.99), to ornate set-ups of circus scenery in front of which you are enticed to have your child’s photo taken for the princely sum of $15.00.

These displays just go on and on, and they pretty much repeat themselves repeat themselves every ten or so booths, and it’s a total sensory overload. Bright lights, flashing neon displays, sellers calling out to you, waving their wares, hoping for another sucker customer who will plunk down some megabucks for their goodies.

Zachary was wide-eyed, trying to see everything, taking it all in. He asked, “Grandma, is this the circus?”

Well, of course in a way it WAS a circus, but I had to tell him that the circus would be inside, and we’d be sitting in seats like we did when we went to see Toy Story 3, and the circus would be on a stage. I neglected to tell him that it would be very loud, but you will see that he handled that problem on his own.

So here’s a little photo essay of Zachary and Grandma at the circus. There were no lions, but elephants, acrobats, and clowns—oh, my!

Rapt, but with ear protection. Smart boy.

I never said I wasn't a soft touch, did I?
Oh yeah, we had popcorn, too. And a
$4.00 bottle of water.

Good News! I've Been Released!

2010-09-15T05:00:00.001-05:00

AWOL? Yes, and I was being held captive by the little guys you see here! Zach, age 3 ½, and his baby brother Sam, age 2 months, captured me and kept me in an undisclosed location for the past week. Don’t I look stressed, tortured and miserable?

My release was negotiated by the government of Grandmastan, ransom paid by the not-for-profit organization MWBCHSIAOU, also known as My-Wife-Better-Come-Home-Soon-I’m-Almost-Out-of-Underwear. I believe that my very own husband, the Center of the Universe had a role in my release.

He was thinking of sending a former president to negotiate with my captors, but Clinton and Carter have recently achieved similar rescues, and he knew that if Dubya was sent out, I’d go underground forever.

Anyhoo, I had a blast, and I’ll be blogging about some of our escapades! The photo here shows me with the boys at Train Town, a very cute little amusement park with a 25-minute train ride in Sonoma, CA. It’s about an hour and a half from their home in Sacramento. Well worth the drive, especially if your 3-year old is obsessed with trains, as Zachary is.

Of course, he’s also very unhappy about loud sounds, so there are a lot of photos of Zachary with his hands covering his ears. This would not be so surprising if Zach were not prone to making loud noises himself. He is often heard singing at the top of his lungs, be it “I’m Bringing Home a Baby Bumblebee”, the alphabet song, or, God help us, “The Theme From Ben Ten”. Not familiar with it? Neither were we, except that Zach’s dad had heard some of his peers talking about it at a recent toddler birthday party. Seems it’s a show aimed at 7-8 year olds, and some of Zachary’s friends have brothers in that age group.

We asked Zach how he knew about Ben Ten. “Chase sings it.” Yep, Chase has older brothers. Check.

So Grandma went online to find out what the real words to the song are. What Zach was singing was hilarious, but also kinda like your drunken roommate trying to sing karaoke to a song she never quite learned.

Let’s just say, Zach got “superpowers”, “no ordinary kid” and “Ben Ten” right. The rest was insanely distorted. As in, “Scotty had a (blah-blah) and he licked it when he did,” which should have been, “It started when an alien device did what it did.”

When his daddy tried to tell Zachary what the real words are, Zach was unconvinced. Wait—did I say unconvinced. No, Zach was angry, in the manner of a 3-year old, insistent that his daddy was wrong and Chase was right. Whatever. Daddy may be Zachary’s total hero, but when it comes to superheroes, Chase has the street cred.

Coming up later this week: Grandma takes Zach to the circus (much more ear-covering), and a play date with Zachary's betrothed, the lovely Miss J, as the two play on the slip 'n' slide, much to the delight of Miss J's adorable little sister, Miss M. Hilarity ensued, as always.

Thanks for a great visit, fam! --oops, did I neglect to mention that these boys have parents? Bygones.

You Can't Be Too Careful

2010-09-08T05:00:00.013-05:00

I’ve been accused of reading the most ridiculous things, just for the sake of reading. And I confess that it’s true. I’ve been known to read things like the fine print on the Special K box if somebody else is hogging the newspaper. (I’m not mentioning any names, but CoTU does come to mind…) That’s not even bad—I’ll read the tag on the bath towel if I’m bored in the bathroom.

Which brings me to these words of wisdom, yes, straight from the tag on the bath towel in my daughter’s hall bathroom: Do not use near source of ignition. Really.

As if I had been pondering taking the towel to the nuclear power plant, or the open flame at the local Propane Is Beautiful Festival. Yeah. That’s a real concern, so it’s a good thing that they took the time to make the tag say that. And it’s even better that I took the time to read it. Now if I’m actually dumb enough to let my towel catch fire in the welding plant, or when my neighbor lights his grill with charcoal lighter fluid, maybe I can’t sue the towel company for criminal negligence.

Or maybe I still can…

Photo Opps

2010-09-06T05:00:00.004-05:00

It’s been a busy and interesting week. It started with a lunch with my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU). Here’s how intense and personal it feels to have lunch with him.

Oh yes, I could go on-- I actually took eight of them, but I'm bored just uploading them, so I'll spare you. You can thank me later.

And don't let the glass fool you-- we're not Pepsi people. Even the water comes in Pepsi glasses, though, at this little barbecue place!

This actually reminds me of the time we were on a cruise with another couple. CoTU was so busy shooting video for eight straight days, my only human interactions were with our friends. I ended up taking over twenty photos of CoTU taking videos. I shot him from the side and from the back, so he never knew I was doing it. When we got home, I had my pictures developed (how quaint!-- but it was in the year 2000) and put them in a little album. I gave it to CoTU as a gift, and he thought it was hilarious. He saw St. Thomas, San Juan, and much of the Caribbean through a tiny lens... Ahhh, my life...

Meanwhile, back to present day life, such as it is.
The next day, when I came out of the supermarket and got into my car, I noticed that the car facing mine in the parking lot had its engine running, but no one was in it. Ah—then the driver lifted her head, and I got a look. I took her picture, thinking you might enjoy seeing how talented some dogs are here in Wildwood. I am wondering, however, how she reaches the pedals. That’s a big damn car!

Another couple of days went by, and CoTU and I came out of our favorite local coffee and sandwich shop to find this piece of automotive finery at the curb. It just cried out for me to take its picture, so I did… Over and over again. Do you think it’s trying to tell us something?

I see lots of messages there, and the vanity plate even reflects the owner’s hobby. Perhaps the goal is to cover the whole car in bumper stickers. It would cut down on glare, and it would certainly reduce the risk of theft. I can’t imagine anyone stealing this car, and thinking they wouldn’t get caught. Then again, there’s the Tiger Woods mentality…

For English, Press 1

2010-09-01T05:00:00.001-05:00

For English, press 1. For Spanish, lo siento de decirle que yo no le puedo ayudar. (I’m sorry to tell you that I can’t help you.)

I’ve been seeing some stuff on Facebook recently along the lines of “I shouldn’t have to press one for English, this is America!”

While I understand the frustration that leads to that sentiment, I must say that I’m not quite there yet. I’m far more impatient with the eight-level hierarchical menu of choices that I get when I call my doctor’s office. They start with a recording of their office hours, when they go to lunch, what holidays they observe, and the notification of the next twelve full moons. Then they launch into the series about who YOU are: “If you are a doctor’s office, press one. If you are a pharmacy, press two. If you are a drug rep, pick up pizza and salads for the sixteen of us, and stop by any time. If you are a patient, please stay on the line, as your call is important to us.” Then you are unceremoniously disconnected.

Anyhoo, I got the most curious document in the mail this week. It was from Ingenix, a company I swear I have never heard of until now. It contained a form letter that, in a nutshell, was trying to determine whether I had recently been in any kind of accident. You see, I had been having back pain, and my doctor (who I ultimately reached via smoke signals) ordered x-rays. Apparently, my insurance company, with whom I have had a very close personal relationship for at least five years, uses Ingenix to investigate claims they may not have to pay. You know, if I was getting x-rays because I had been in a car accident, or a street fight, Charming Insurance Company could disavow all responsibility for my care.

Here’s the connection to where we started this post. Right along with the letter asking me to supply all sorts of information about what happened (to wit, nothing) to justify the x-rays, there is an exact copy of the letter in Spanish.

Yes. In Spanish. To me, Leah Rubin. Not Leah Rubin Gonzales.

So I think that sending the form in two languages is pretty insane, unless they had a reason to believe that I needed to communicate in some language other than English. I mean, with a name like mine, they might as well have sent it in Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew, German, or Esperanto.

Especially since I’ve been with the same company for so long, with never a hint of inability to read and write in English… Oh… Unless they’ve been reading this blog, and they think I am illiterate. I hadn’t thought of that.

But really? We’re not killing enough trees? We’re not putting enough trash into the landfills? We’re not yet thinking about our carbon footprint enough to realize that maybe we shouldn’t send TWO copies of every form to our customers in two languages without some good reason?

Press ‘R’ for rant.

90th Anniversary? But We Look So Young!

2010-08-27T05:00:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was Women’s Equality Day, and the 90th anniversary of women’s suffrage. Of course, lots of women are still suffering, but that’s not important right now…

So to celebrate this momentous occasion, the venerable Ellen Goodman emerged, if only briefly, from her retirement, to bestow the “Equal Rites Awards—Acknowledging those who have done the most to set back women’s rights over the last year.” I believe that if she sees her shadow, we will have six more weeks of absurdity.

Goodman points out that it took 90 years to get three women on the Supreme Court, but if you still count Diana Ross, that’s four. What? What’d I say?

Anyhoo, space prohibits me from telling you about all her awardees, (yeah, space and copyright laws), but here are a few of my favorites:

The International Ayatollah Award went to a senior Iranian cleric who stated that women who “do not dress modestly” cause earthquakes. Really. And oil rig explosions cause hurricanes. (Not really.)

Then she gave a Blind Justice Award to Rome’s all-male clerics who declared that ordaining women is as grave a crime in church law as pedophilia. Well, it seems to me, Ellen, that since they don’t seem to punish pedophilia much, this may have been less damning than you thought.

Mel Gibson (ah yes, he is in the news again!) got the Raging Hormonal Imbalance Award for his eight-minute audio-taped rant telling his ex-girlfriend that she needs “a bat to the head”. Gosh, like Charlie Sheen, should we just wait until they actually kill some woman? Oops, I didn’t mean to get started…

The Male-Practice Award went to Bob Marshall, a Virginia legislator who says that disabled children are God’s punishment for women who had an abortion. Really? God punishes CHILDREN for women’s abortion? That doesn’t sound like the loving God that holds us in the palm of His hand to me?

And my personal favorite, the Northern Irish, pro-family, 60-year old female politician who had an affair with a 19-year old. And unbelievably, her name is Mrs. Robinson. Iris Robinson, and like Dave Barry, I swear I am not making this up. She was given the Dubious Equality Award for the woman who has done the most to emulate the worst.

So it was nice to have Ellen Goodman back on the Op-Ed page, if only for a day. I hope she saw her shadow. We could use more laughs.

Lookin' For Love in --Where???

2010-08-25T05:00:00.006-05:00

Remember the old song “Lookin’ For Love In All the Wrong Places”? There’s a new spin on that…

It seems that there’s a man in West Frankfort, Illinois who’s taken the age-old search for love to a new venue: the parking lot.

Yes, Jon Hemminghaus is running around the parking lots of Southern Illinois plastering fliers on the windshields of cars to help him in his quest.

The flier reads “WANTED: A woman that can put up with this man.” So of course it has his photograph on the poster, plus an incentive of a $500 reward for the wise and/or lucky person who hooks him up with his one true love. –or failing, that, finds him a woman who will go on at least six dates with him.

According to a story out of the Southern Illinoisan, (see, I am not making this up), Hemminghaus says that he’s looked “every place there was to search. It’s hard to do. It’s hard to meet someone. I tried online, but you end up spending 15 minutes writing to someone and never get a response.” He describes himself as a little bashful, and says that makes it hard to meet a gal. (Good thing he doesn’t know about my visceral reaction to the word ‘gal’.)

He says he’s good at thinking outside the box. I’ll say.

The flier goes on to describe what he’s looking for: a single Christian female who enjoys life, has the ability to laugh, likes motorcycles and is not lazy or mean. Well, that’s a pretty cool profile. Lots of people have done worse, so who’s to judge?

I say, go for it, Jon Hemminghaus! You’ve got a novel approach, and you might just find the perfect mate this way. Just pick the right parking lot. I’m thinking outside a daycare center?—bad idea. But outside a church, a fitness center or a beauty shop?—better odds. Keep an open mind.

As a public service, I’m running your photo here, Jon Hemminghaus. You just never know who may see this and take a shine to you. You seem like a nice enough guy, and I like your ingenuity. Besides, anyone who doesn’t like mean people, and is willing to admit, as you did, that “it ain’t no fun being alone” is all right in my book.

I hope you find your ‘pot of gold’ not under the rainbow, but under the windshield wiper.

Charming Vs. Sincere

2010-08-23T05:00:00.001-05:00

Ongoing dialogue between me and the Center of the Universe:

Me: You don’t listen to me.

CoTU: Of course I do. Where do you think I come up with my excuses? If I weren’t paying attention to what you said, I wouldn’t know what to rebut! And if I weren’t listening, I wouldn’t have anything to try to weasel out of.

Hmmm. He has a point.

Meanwhile, here’s a little story about CoTU you might like. Some years ago we went to see “Into the Woods”, a wonderful musical by Stephen Sondheim that blends a lot of fairy tales into a very entertaining theater event.

In the course of the play, Prince Charming makes a very flowery statement to his paramour, who is flattered, and wants to know if he really means it. He answers, “I was raised to be charming, not sincere.” That was the highlight of the evening for CoTU, and he has quoted the line frequently ever since. And, after all, he did have a long career in sales and marketing, despite his engineering roots.

So keeping that in mind, today he showed me a draft of an e-mail he was sending his cousin. She’s very far away, and they’ve been out of touch for years. It was actually a very lovely and personal message.

I said, “Wow, I didn’t know you were capable of that. You wrote that all by yourself?”

“I did,” he said. “And it wasn’t all that painful, when it comes down to it.”

I said, “Are you sure you didn’t plagiarize something from a website, like maybe “Sincerity for Sale” dot com? Or, “Personal Letters Anonymous” dot com, or even “You Tell ‘Em, We Sell ‘Em” dot com?” I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for a new business venture.

“I should have looked,” he admitted. “I could have saved myself a lot of time.”

More From the Science Fair

2010-08-20T05:00:00.004-05:00

Yes, the Science Fair project that is my marriage is alive and well. The chart that my husband, The Center of the Universe (CoTU) keeps under the bed is constantly being updated. At least that is my belief.

I’m guessing the categories are “What Does It Take To Pi** Her Off”, “How Far Can I Push Her Before She Snaps”, and “What’s the Land Speed Record for Turning a Fun Experience into an Ugly One.”

So yesterday’s encounter, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which column this one goes into, was about our ongoing observations of how easily CoTU loses weight, compared with how difficult it is for me to lose weight.

Here’s a précis of the backstory:

He eats to the point of gluttony and does no exercise. If he forgets to have one of his many afternoon snacks one day, he can drop two or three pounds. I say this without any exaggeration.

I eat like a true minimalist, very little processed food, very small portions, working out 4-5 times a week, and it took me forever to lose a few pounds. For the past six weeks I have lost NO weight at all.

Now, sorry about the detour, back to present time. Well, yesterday.

CoTU steps off the scale and proudly announces that he’s dropped two more pounds. This after he ate a nice round of three full meals the day before, punctuated by plenty of snacks, and topped off with a nice apple turnover for dessert.

I groaned and remarked that even though I forsook the potato, bread and dessert at our previous night’s dinner, I was still stuck at my seemingly immutable weight.

He said, “Well, just don’t worry about it, Mama Cass.” I. Am. Not. Kidding. Like this is funny? I’m supposed to laugh when he calls me the name of the fattest person he can think of?

He tried to tell me he was just teasing me, but I was NOT happy. I’m sorry—did I just say I was not happy? How about I was livid? Yes. Livid. I said, “Why don’t you just call me fatso and get it over with?”

“Aw, come on, Chubby, I was just kidding.” Good thing my skillet was two rooms away or I would have beaned him with it.

He still thinks this is funny, and wants to call it ‘teasing’.

I say this opens up a new category on the Science Fair chart: “Name-Calling: Is Today a Good Day to Die?”

Postcards from Outer Space

2010-08-16T05:00:00.004-05:00

Neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night… you know, the U.S. Postal Service generally does a great job of bringing us our mail. But once in a while, since we live at 8324 Elm Street (fictitiously speaking, of course), we get mail for the people at 8324 Poplar, a block north of us. We put the envelope back into our mailbox, raise the flag, and the next day, it’s back on its way. Occasionally we get a piece of mail meant for one of our neighbors, and we just stick that in their mailbox, or –and this may shock you—hand it to them in person.

So imagine my surprise when I moseyed out to the mailbox recently, and flipping through the flyers, bills and magazines, found a postcard from Italy, addressed to my daughter. Who lives in Sacramento.

Yep, I swear I am not making this up. My son and his bride, (the former Daffodil, now my actual ‘dil’) had honeymooned in Italy, and here was a beautiful picture postcard from Capri, meant for his sister.

The address portion was clearly labeled to Rachel and family, obviously a different surname from ours, at HER street address, Sacramento, CA, proper zip code and all. What the what??? I felt like I was being pranked, Punk’d, or for those of you my age, on Candid Camera.

I literally turned around 360° in the cul-de-sac, thinking that Rob and Jessica must be in their car (yeah, they just dropped in from Washington, D.C., right?) watching me, laughing their tiny respective a**es off. Nope. No sign of pranksters.

I couldn’t process what I was seeing. How did this end up here in Missouri, addressed as it was?

As I headed down the driveway, I noticed that there was also a small envelope, a thank-you note, as it turned out, addressed to us from Rob and Jessica. Ahhh, I thought, I get it. Somehow the note card must have stuck to the postcard when they mailed them, and the postcard intended for Sacramento just piggy-backed onto our mail, ending up here. Okay, wacky and implausible, but not impossible.

Later, when I spoke to Rob, I said, “Guess what we got in the mail today?” I pretty much stunned him into silence with the answer, and that takes some doing. He will normally outwit me and anyone else foolish enough to spar with him, with one arm tied behind his back. Then I told him my theory that supposedly explained how this could happen. He listened condescendingly (a mother can tell) and then ~~condescendingly~~ patiently pointed out that he had actually mailed the postcard from Italy.

Now he had truly stunned ME into silence. I just assumed they had brought the postcards home with them and mailed them stateside. “No way!” I said. He confidently told me to look at the postmark. Well, that was the other thing: there WAS no postmark. It had an Italian stamp on it, but…. How did it land in OUR mailbox? I could see it going to Sacramento, and I could see it going nowhere, but seriously, how did WE get it?

Rob said, “What about YOUR postcard?” Oh, you sent us a postcard, too? It hasn’t arrived. Maybe it’s gone to Sacramento, I hypothesized…

Ten days later said postcard arrived. Beautiful scene of Capri, sweet note from the kids, and addressed to the Center of the Universe and me. Italian stamp. No postmark. I’ll never know if it got here via Sacramento.

I Owe You One, Carolyn

2010-08-13T05:00:00.003-05:00

Potpourri—that’s what Jeopardy calls it when they just throw together some miscellaneous and random stuff they didn’t use elsewhere. And it’s the overly perfumed mix of this and that you sometimes find in a dish in the bathroom, where it’s meant to mask other (noxious) odors.

Let’s hope this particular batch of potpourri is more the former than the latter…

First, a tip of the hat to a lovely lady named Carolyn P. (I won’t reveal her last name, but it’s really not ‘Potpourri’.) Here’s why:

I dragged my weary body out to the mail box a week or so ago in the 100+ degree heat (combined with our famously high humidity, we had a heat index in the 114- 115 degree range. That’s hot enough to cook burgers on the grill without turning on the gas. Okay, almost.) Why I bother with the mail any more is beyond me, since 87% of the mail on 93% of the days is pure junk. Especially in the weeks leading up to an election, which this was.

So I did the army crawl back into the house, pulling my sorry self over the threshold, and my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) steps right over me and asks, “Anything interesting?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “An ad from a contract hit man, offering to nail clueless and self-absorbed husbands.” With that, I believe I passed out from dehydration. Or not.

Anyway, the mail was the usual assortment of ‘right into the recycling bin’, ‘pay this bill’, and ‘magazines I will not live long enough to read’, except for one thing.

There it was, a legal-size envelope addressed to me in the actual handwriting of a live human being. Okay, I didn’t have actual proof of that, but it sure seemed so. The envelope had a pre-printed return address of a business in a nearby community, but I had never heard of them, and had no idea why they were sending me an actual piece of mail. I swear, if the thing hadn’t had a first-class stamp on it, I might have tossed it, assuming it was some sort of ad.

Inside I found a slim piece of lined paper, with Carolyn P.’s name imprinted at the top. She wrote, “I received this by mistake along with my info. Thought you would like to have it.” Hmmm. Behind it was the form letter from the famed and exalted facility where I had had my mammogram, telling me that my results were normal.

WHAT THE WHAT??? How many variations of the HIPAA privacy laws did THAT violate? Plenty. But all that aside, how nice was it of Carolyn to take the time and effort to mail me my particular letter? Very. I wrote her a thank-you note, and asked CoTU about maybe getting her a gift card to Borders, or something. I just really wanted to let her know how much I appreciated her kindness. He thought that was a little much, so I mailed the note alone.

So I wanted to post about this, to thank Carolyn P. publicly. Now here’s the funny post script… Friday I attended a meeting of the quilt guild I joined a few months ago. Since it’s summer, I haven’t met all the members yet, as various people have been away on meeting days. One of my friends asked another member if Carolyn P. was coming… I said, “Carolyn P.? As in the Blankety-Blank Company in County Center?” Yes, they assured me that was her… Wow. I told them the story of how she had received, then sent me my medical info. We were all taken aback by the incompetence of the facility’s mailing, and by the coincidence that Carolyn and I were members of the same group.

So here’s my shout-out of thanks to Carolyn, and you didn’t even know I was a member of Piece Mill Quilters! Hope to see you at the next meeting!

Oh—and as for the potpourri, I went on too long to include the other stuff, so as Emily Litella would say: Nevermind.

Graphs and Charts, Domestic-Style

2010-08-11T05:00:00.003-05:00

Whose Ox is Being Gored?

Yeah, the hubster—you know, the Center of the Universe (CoTU), made an off-color, off-handed, off-planet remark that can’t be repeated in this PG-13 blog. I clucked my tongue, rolled my eyes, and he protested as follows:

“Hey, that’s pretty harsh—don’t forget, I supply you with about 70% of all the material you use in your blog!”

Yeah, well I sure can’t use that.

But now I wonder if he’s counting up the number of posts that stem from his little gem-like offerings, and creating a spreadsheet to keep track of the true percentages…

It wouldn’t surprise me.

I have long thought that our relationship is basically the equivalent of a science fair project for him. He says something offensive, and silently measures my response and/or reaction. If there’s no visible reaction, he ramps up the O&O-factor (Offensive and Obnoxious) till I break. It may just be a look, a rolling of the eyes, or a subtle shaking of the head. The verbal responses just tend to escalate the insanity, egging him on to defend his frat-boy comments. Thus I often opt for the silence I have perfected over the years. It’s so much simpler that way.

Still, I believe that somewhere in the house, perhaps under the bed, perhaps behind his desk, there’s a display board complete with graphs and charts, recording for all time how many crude comments it takes to get a rise out of me. There are the short-term responses and the longer-term trends. It’s likely titled, “Driving Leah Crazy, One Crack at a Time”.

The Post-Surgical Supplies

2010-08-09T05:00:00.001-05:00

Note: Today is the first anniversary of Funny Is the New Young! Cake is being served, so please help yourself to a generous slice. I'm always glad you came by!

As moms, there isn’t much we won’t do for our kids, right? And this is especially true after they make us grandmothers! As they say at Grandparents.com, it’s great to be grand.

Anyhoo, I was the designated driver/runner of errands/chief cook and bottle washer/tidier/ laundress and “other duties as assigned” as my old employer used to say, at my recent stay with my daughter and her family when she was having her second son. Do you need me to tell you how much I relished that role? (I also relished the roll, when I made hot dogs, but that’s not important right now…)

So, I was saying… There I was, always at the ready, panting like a puppy waiting for the rubber ball to leave its master’s hand, hoping for a helpful assignment on my daughter Rachel’s first morning home from the hospital.

Bingo! “Mom, could you do me a favor?” Hey, that is exactly what I’m here for, at least during the moments that I’m not holding the new little guy. “I bought the pads the surgical instruction sheet told me to get, but they’re awful. Do you mind going to the store for me?”

Great, just give me specifics, and I’ll be on it like white on rice.

“Well,” she said, “I can’t really tell you exactly what to get, I just know I can’t use these. They’re ginormous.” Actually, given the situation, perhaps that should be spelled ‘gynormous’. “I need something smaller and, well-- wearable.”

Big is bad? I wondered aloud. Post surgery? Isn’t big good in this case? I realize that my child-bearing years are behind me, but still…

That’s when she gave me a little demonstration. Here’s the way this story, ahem, unfolds…

“See?” she said. “They’re way too big to wear!”

Wow, I had never seen anything like it. I even took out a tape measure so that you could see that one of these babies is a full 14” long. Put wheels on it and it’s a skateboard.

I went to the store supremely confident that I could select the right product. How hard could it be to scale back from the Mondo-Gigundo-Unspeakably Absorbent design? Then I stepped into the aisle of ‘feminine hygiene products’. I was shocked to see the number and assortment of sizes, weights, shapes and styles. Reading the packages took forever. Overnight, super-absorbent, ultra-absorbent, with wings, wingless, scented, holy smoke, I was floored! The comparison and analysis took a while, but I made a decision, and went on my way.

When I got home, Rachel asked me what I bought. I think I got the ostrich-type—you know, flightless? I told her. “You mean without wings?” Exactly. And two steps down from the ones you had.

“Mom… “

“They’re not skateboards, honey. I think they’re more like flip-flops.” At least they open in two steps instead of four. A significant improvement.

And now, dear readers, your cake, as promised!

Take as much as you want, no calories and no guilt! Enjoy! I'm always glad you came by.

And the Answer Is...

2010-08-07T15:51:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes, I know I promised the answers to yesterday’s puzzles!

Sacramento can be broken into ‘scent’ and ‘aroma’. Cool, huh? And the number puzzle is 2345X6/7=2010. I just love stuff like this.

See you here Monday, August 9th, which will be the first anniversary of Funny Is the New Young. No gifts, please, but there will be a celebratory cake, hats, and festive balloons! Wa-hoo!

The Puzzle Master, My Hero!

2010-08-06T05:00:00.010-05:00

I like puzzles and games; crosswords, Sudoku, kakuro, oh my! I especially like to play along with Will Shortz on NPR’s Weekend Edition Sunday mornings.

Shortz is the editor of the New York Times crossword puzzles, and has a bazillion other titles and honors to his credit. The Sunday morning gig, however, enables listeners (like me!) to play along as he plays word games, or does brain teasers. When the game ends he issues a challenge for the coming week, and it’s normally in the form of a puzzle. If you solve the puzzle, you e-mail in your answer, and one random entry is chosen to select a participant to play the next week’s puzzle on the air. Believe me, it’s entertaining.

Here’s an example of a past puzzle Shortz challenged the listeners to solve: Sacramento, the capital of California, can be broken into two words, five letters each, and they are synonyms of each other. What are they? (Yes, I’ll post the answer tomorrow.)

Sometimes the puzzles are more about numbers than words, but hey, I say, bring it on. (Doesn’t mean I always solve them, though!) Here’s one of those: Write down the digits from 2 to 7, in order. Add two mathematical symbols to get an expression equaling 2010. What symbols are these? (Right, tomorrow, remember? That gives you time to work on it—if you want more than a day, just don’t peek. It’s like not looking at the answers in the daily paper—your choice.)

So last week’s challenge—meaning we won’t get the outcome till this coming Sunday, the 8th—was to come up with a riddle that starts off with "What's the difference between" and involves a spoonerism. Okay, here I’m going to quote from the website to make good use of my time, and not make a complete fool of myself trying to explain this…

“A spoonerism is when consonant sounds are interchanged. For example, "What's the difference between an ornithologist and a loser in a spelling bee?" The answer: "One is a bird watcher, and the other is a word botcher." Another example: "What's the difference between an iceberg and a groom at a stable?" The answer: "One crushes boats, while the other brushes coats." Entries will be judged on cleverness, originality and naturalness of syntax. “

So here you have it, a challenge to rouse your brain from the summer doldrums. What? That’s just ME? Oh. Nevermind. But just in case you like word games, come up with one, and post it here as a comment. Want to know what I submitted? Here you go: “What’s the difference between a lunatic and a gastroenterologist? One goes nuts and the other knows guts.”

He’s going to hit me with a skillet, isn’t he?